SONGS  OF  THE  CATTLE 
TRAIL  AND  COW  CAMP 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  -    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


SONGS  OF  THE  CATTLE 
TRAIL  AND  COW  CAMP 


COLLECTED  BY 

JOHN  A.  LOMAX,  B.A.,  M.A 

Executive  Secretary  Ex-Students'  Association, 

the  University  of  Texas. 

For  three  years  Sheldon  Fellow  from  Harvard  University 

for  the  Collection  of  American  Ballads;  Ex-President 

American  Folk-Lore  Society.      Collector  of 

"Cowboy  Songs  and  Other  Frontier 

Ballads";  joint  author  with  Dr. 

H.  Y.  Benedict  of  "The 

Book  of  Texas. " 


WITH  A  FOREWORD  BY 

WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS 


Jl3eto  gorfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1919 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  November,  1919. 


"  THAT  THESE  DEAR  FRIENDS  I  LEAVE  BEHIND 

MAY   KEEP   KIND  HEARTS'  REMEMBRANCE   OF  THE  LOVE  WE  HAD." 

Solon. 

In  affectionate  gratitude  to  a  group  of  men,  my  intimate  friends 
during  College  days   (brought  under  one  roof  by  a  "  Fraternity  "), 
whom  I  still  love  not  less  but  more, 
Will    Prat  her,    Hammett    Hardy,    Penn     Hargrove     and     Harry 

Sieger,  of  precious  and  joyous  memory; 

Norman  Crazier,  not  yet  quite  emerged  from  Presbyterianism ; 
Eugene  Barker,  cynical,  solid,  unafraid; 
"  Cap' en  "  Duval,  a  gentleman  of  Virginia,  sah ; 
Ed  Miller,  red-headed  and  royal-hearted ; 
Bates  MacFarland,  calm  and  competent  without  camouflage; 
Jimmie  Haven,  who  has  put  'em  over  every  good  day  since ; 
Charley  Johnson,  "  the  Swede  " —  the  fattest,  richest  and  dearest  of 

the  bunch; 
Edgar    Witt,  whose   loyal   devotion   and   pertinacious  energy  built 

the  "  Frat "  house ; 

Roy  Bedichek,  too  big  for  any  job  he  has  yet  tackled; 
"  Curley "  Duncan,  who  possesses  all  the  virtues  of  the  old  time 

cattleman  and  none  of  the  vices  of  the  new; 
Rom  Rhome,  the  quiet  and  canny  counter  of  coin; 
Gavin    Hunt,   student    and    lover   of    all    things    beautiful; 
Dick  Kimball,  the   soldier;   every  inch  of  him   a  handsome  man; 
Alex  and  Bruce  and  Dave  and  George  and  "Freshman"  Mathis 

and    Clarence,   the   six    Freshmen    we    u  took    in " ;    while   Ike 

MacFarland,    Alfred    Fierce    Ward,    and    Guy    and    Charlie 

Witt  were  still  in  the  process  of  assimilation, — 
To  this  group  of  God's  good  fellows,  I  dedicate  this  little  book. 


No  loopholes  now  are  framing 
Lean  faces,  grim  and  brown, 
No  more  keen  eyes  are  aiming 
To  bring  the  redskin  down ; 
But  every  wind  careening 
Seems  here  to  breathe  a  song  — 
A  song  of  brave  careering, 
A  saga  of  the  strong. 


FOREWORD 

In  collecting,  arranging,  editing,  and  preserv- 
ing the  "  Songs  of  the  Cattle  Trail  and  Cow 
Camp,"  my  friend  John  Lomax  has  performed  a 
real  service  to  American  literature  and  to  America. 
No  verse  is  closer  to  the  soil  than  this;  none  more 
realistic  in  the  best  sense  of  that  much-abused  word; 
none  more  truly  interprets  and  expresses  a  part  of 
our  national  life.  To  understand  and  appreciate 
these  lyrics  one  should  hear  Mr.  Lomax  talk  about 
them  and  sing  them;  for  they  were  made  for  the 
voice  to  pronounce  and  for  the  ears  to  hear,  rather 
than  for  the  lamplit  silence  of  the  library.  They 
are  as  oral  as  the  chants  of  Vachel  Lindsay;  and 
when  one  has  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  Mr.  Lomax 
—  who  loves  these  verses  and  the  men  who  first 
sang  them  —  one  reconstructs  in  imagination  the 
appropriate  figures  and  romantic  setting. 

For  nothing  is  so  romantic  as  life  itself.  None 
of  our  illusions  about  life  is  so  romantic  as  the 
truth.  Hence  the  purest  realism  appeals  to  the 
mature  imagination  more  powerfully  than  any  im- 
possible prettiness  can  do.  The  more  we  know  of 
individual  and  universal  life,  the  more  we  are  ex- 
cited and  stimulated. 

And  the  collection  of  these  poems  is  an  addition 

vii 


Foreword 

to  American  Scholarship  as  well  as  to  American  Lit- 
erature. It  was  a  wise  policy  of  the  Faculty  of 
Harvard  University  to  grant  Mr.  Lomax  a  travel- 
ling fellowship,  that  he  might  have  the  necessary 
leisure  to  discover  and  to  collect  these  verses;  it  is 
really  "  original  research,"  as  interesting  and  surely 
as  valuable  as  much  that  passes  under  that  name; 
for  it  helps  every  one  of  us  to  understand  our  own 
country. 

WM.  LYON  PHELPS. 
Yale  University, 
July  27,  1919. 


Vlll 


INTRODUCTION 

"Look    down,    look    down,   that   weary    road, 
'Tis  the  road  that  the  sun  goes  down." 

*  *  * 

"  'Twas  way  out  West  where  the  antelope  roam, 
And  the  coyote  howls  'round  the  cowboy's  home, 
Where  the  mountains  are  covered  with  chaparral  frail, 
And  the  valleys  are  checkered  with  the  cattle  trail, 
Where  the  miner  digs  for  the  golden  veins, 
And  the  cowboy  rides  o'er  the  silent  plains, — " 

The  "  Songs  of  the  Cattle  Trail  and  Cow  Camp  " 
does  not  purport  to  be  an  anthology  of  Western  verse. 
As  its  title  indicates,  the  contents  of  the  book  are 
limited  to  attempts,  more  or  less  poetic,  in  translat- 
ing scenes  connected  with  the  life  of  a  cowboy.  The 
volume  is  in  reality  a  by-product  of  my  earlier  col- 
lection, "  Cowboy  Songs  and  Other  Frontier  Bal- 
lads. "  In  the  former  book  I  put  together  what 
seemed  to  me  to  be  the  best  of  the  songs  created  and 
sung  by  the  cowboys  as  they  went  about  their  work. 
In  making  the  collection,  the  cowboys  often  sang  or 
sent  to  me  songs  which  I  recognized  as  having  al- 
ready been  in  print;  although  the  singer  usually  said 
that  some  other  cowboy  had  sung  the  song  to  him 
and  that  he  did  not  know  where  it  had  originated. 
For  example,  one  night  in  New  Mexico  a  cowboy 
sang  to  me,  in  typical  cowboy  music,  Larry  Chitten- 

ix 


Introduction 

den's  entire  "  Cowboys'  Christmas  Ball  ";  since  that 
time  the  poem  has  often  come  to  me  in  manuscript 
form  as  an  original  cowboy  song.  The  changes  — 
usually,  it  must  be  confessed,  resulting  in  bettering 
the  verse  —  which  have  occurred  in  oral  transmis- 
sion, are  most  interesting.  Of  one  example,  Charles 
Badger  Clark's  "  High  Chin  Bob,"  I  have  printed, 
following  Mr.  Clark's  poem,  a  cowboy  version, 
which  I  submit  to  Mr.  Clark  and  his  admirers  for 
their  consideration. 

In  making  selections  for  this  volume  from  a  large 
mass  of  material  that  came  into  my  ballad  hopper 
while  hunting  cowboy  songs  as  a  Traveling  Fellow 
from  Harvard  University,  I  have  included  the  best 
of  the  verse  given  me  directly  by  the  cowboys ;  other 
selections  have  come  in  through  repeated  recommen- 
dation of  these  men;  others  are  vagrant  verses  from 
Western  newspapers;  and  still  others  have  been 
lifted  from  collections  of  Western  verse  written  by 
such  men  as  Charles  Badger  Clark,  Jr.,  and  Herbert 
H.  Knibbs.  To  these  two  authors,  as  well  as  others 
who  have  permitted  me  to  make  use  of  their  work, 
the  grateful  thanks  of  the  collector  are  extended. 
As  will  be  seen,  almost  one-half  of  the  selections 
have  no  assignable  authorship.  I  am  equally  grate- 
ful to  these  unknown  authors. 

All  those  who  found  u  Cowboy  Songs  "  diverting, 
it  is  believed,  will  make  welcome  "  The  Songs  of  the 
Cattle  Trail  and  Cow  Camp."  Many  of  these  have 
this  claim  to  be  called  songs :  they  have  been  set  to 


Introduction 

music  by  the  cowboys,  who,  in  their  isolation  and 
loneliness,  have  found  solace  in  narrative  or  de- 
scriptive verse  devoted  to  cattle  scenes.  Herein, 
again,  through  these  quondam  songs  we  may  come 
to  appreciate  something  of  the  spirit  of  the  big 
West  —  its  largeness,  its  freedom,  its  wholehearted 
hospitality,  its  genuine  friendship.  Here  again,  too, 
we  may  see  the  cowboy  at  work  and  at  play;  hear 
the  jingle  of  his  big  bell  spurs,  the  swish  of  his  rope, 
the  creaking  of  his  saddle  gear,  the  thud  of  thou- 
sands of  hoofs  on  the  long,  long  trail  winding  from 
Texas  to  Montana ;  and  know  something  of  the  life 
that  attracted  from  the  East  some  of  its  best  young 
blood  to  a  work  that  was  necessary  in  the  winning 
of  the  West.  The  trails  are  becoming  dust  covered 
or  grass  grown  or  lost  underneath  the  farmers'  fur- 
row; but  in  the  selections  of  this  volume,  many  of 
them  poems  by  courtesy,  men  of  today  and  those 
who  are  to  follow,  may  sense,  at  least  in  some  small 
measure,  the  service,  the  glamour,  the  romance  of 
that  knight-errant  of  the  plains  —  the  American 
cowboy. 

J.  A.  L. 

The  University  of  Texas, 
Austin,  July  9,  1919. 


XI 


CONTENTS 

PART  I.    COWBOY  YARNS  PAGE 

OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS i 

THE  SHALLOWS  OF  THE  FORD 2 

THE  DANCE  AT  SILVER  VALLEY 5 

THE  LEGEND  OF  BOASTFUL  BILL      ....     ...     .     .     .  8 

THE  TEXAS  COWBOY  AND  THE  MEXICAN  GREASER    .     .     .     .  n 

BRONCHO  VERSUS  BICYCLE      .     .     ...    ...    .    , 14 

RIDERS  OF  THE  STARS 19 

LASCA 23 

THE  TRANSFORMATION  OF  A  TEXAS  GIRL  ....     .     .     .27 

THE  GLORY  TRAIL 30 

HIGH  CHIN  BOB 33 

To  HEAR  HIM  TELL  IT 36 

THE  CLOWN'S  BABY 40 

THE  DRUNKEN  DESPERADO 44 

MARTA  OF  MILRONE 46 

JACK  DEMPSEY'S  GRAVE 52 

THE  CATTLE  ROUND-UP 54 

PART  II.    THE  COWBOY  OFF  GUARD 

A  COWBOY'S  WORRYING  LOVE 59 

THE  COWBOY  AND  THE  MAID 62 

A  COWBOY'S  LOVE  SONG     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  c 65 

A  BORDER  AFFAIR     .....     .     .     *     .     .     .     .     .     .  67 

SNAGTOOTH   SAL 69 

LOVE  LYRICS  OF  A  COWBOY      ......     .     .     .     .     .71 

THE  BULL  FIGJHT 74 


Contents 

PAGE 

THE  COWBOY'S  VALENTINE     .'    .     .     . 76 

A  COWBOY'S  HOPELESS  LOVE 77 

THE  CHASE ( 80 

RIDING  SONG       ....... 81 

OUR  LITTLE  COWGIRL    .  •'*-. 82 

I  WANT  MY  TIME 84 

WHO'S  THAT  CALLING  so  SWEET? 85 

SONG  OF  THE  CATTLE  TRAIL  .          86 

A  COWBOY'S  SON 88 

A  COWBOY  SONG 89 

A  NEVADA  COWPUNCHER  TO  His  BELOVED 90 

THE  COWBOY  TO  His  FRIEND  IN  NEED 91 

WHEN  BOB  GOT  THROWED 92 

COWBOY  VERSUS  BRONCHO 94 

WHEN  YOU'RE  THROWED 97 

PARDNERS        100 

THE  BRONC  THAT  WOULDN'T  BUST 102 

THE  OL'  Cow  HAWSE  .    >     , 104 

THE  BUNK-HOUSE  ORCHESTRA 106 

THE  COWBOYS'  DANCE  SONG 109 

THE  COWBOYS'  CHRISTMAS   BALL 112 

A  DANCE  AT  THE  RANCH 117 

AT  A  COWBOY  DANCE 120 

THE  COWBOYS*  BALL 122 

PART  III.    COWBOY  TYPES 

THE  COWBOY       .     ,     ,     .     ...     , 127 

BAR-Z  ON  A  SUNDAY  NIGHT  .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .129 

A  COWBOY  RACE 131 

THE  HABIT     ...........     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .132 

A  RANGER *     .,,,..     .     .     .     .     .  134 

THE  INSULT .     ...     .     .137 


Contents 

PAGE 

"  THE  ROAD  TO  RUIN  " 138 

THE  OUTLAW 140 

THE  DESERT 142 

WHISKEY  BILL, —  A  FRAGMENT 145 

DENVER  JIM 146 

THE  VIGILANTES 150 

THE  BANDIT'S  GRAVE 152 

THE  OLD  MACKENZIE  TRAIL 154 

THE  SHEEP-HERDER 158 

A  COWBOY  AT  THE  CARNIVAL 162 

THE  OLD  COWMAN 165 

THE  GILA  MONSTER  ROUTE 168 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  PLAINS 172 

WHERE  THE  GRIZZLY  DWELLS 174 

A  COWBOY  TOAST 176 

RIDIN'  UP  THE  ROCKY  TRAIL  FROM  TOWN 179 

THE  DISAPPOINTED  TENDERFOOT       . 182 

A  COWBOY  ALONE  WITH  His  CONSCIENCE 184 

JUST  A-RIDIN'!         .     .     ,     .     . 187 

THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 189 


PART  I 
COWBOY  YARNS 


The  centipede  runs  across  my  head, 
The  vinegaroon  crawls  in  my  bed, 
Tarantulas  jump  and  scorpions  play, 
The  broncs  are  grazing  far  away, 
The  rattlesnake  gives  his  warning  cry, 
And  the  coyotes  sing  their  lullaby, 
While  I  sleep  soundly  beneath  the  sky. 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

OUT  where  the  handclasp's  a  little  stronger, 
Out  where  the  smile  dwells  a  little  longer, 
That's  where  the  West  begins; 
Out  where  the  sun  is  a  little  brighter, 
Where  the  snows  that  fall  are  a  trifle  whiter, 
Where  the  bonds  of  home  are  a  wee  bit  tighter, 
That's  where  the  West  begins. 

Out  where  the  skies  are  a  trifle  bluer, 
Out  where  friendship's  a  little  truer, 

That's  where  the  West  begins; 
Out  where  a  fresher  breeze  is  blowing, 
Where  there's  laughter  in  every  streamlet  flowing, 
Where  there's  more  of  reaping  and  less  of  sowing, 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 

Out  where  the  world  is  in  the  making, 
Where  fewer  hearts  in  despair  are  aching, 

That's  where  the  West  begins ; 
Where  there's  more  of  singing  and  less  of  sighing, 
Where  there's  more  of  giving  and  less  of  buying, 
And  a  man  makes  friends  without  half  trying, 
That's  where  the  West  begins. 

Arthur  Chapman. 
i 


THE  SHALLOWS  OF  THE  FORD 

DID  you  ever  wait  for  daylight  when  the  stars 
along  the  river 
Floated  thick  and  white  as  snowflakes  in  the  water 

deep  and  strange, 
Till  a  whisper  through  the  aspens  made  the  current 

break  and  shiver 

As  the  frosty  edge  of  morning  seemed  to  melt  and 
spread  and  change? 

Once  I  waited,  almost  wishing  that  the  dawn  would 

never  find  me; 
Saw  the  sun  roll  up  the  ranges  like  the  glory  of  the 

Lord; 
Was  about  to  wake  my  pardner  who  was  sleeping 

close  behind  me, 
When  I  saw  the  man  we  wanted  spur  his  pony  to 

the  ford. 

Saw  the   ripples  of  the   shallows  and  the  muddy 

streaks  that  followed, 
As  the  pony  stumbled  toward  me  in  the  narrows  of 

the  bend; 
Saw  the  face  I  used  to  welcome,  wild  and  watchful, 

lined  and  hollowed ; 

2 


The  Shallows  of  the  Ford 

And  God  knows  I  wished  to  warn  him,  for  I  once 
had  called  him  friend. 


But  an  oath  had  come  between  us  —  I  was  paid  by 

Law  and  Order; 
He    was    outlaw,    rustler,    killer  —  so  the    border 

whisper  ran; 
Left  his  word  in  Caliente  that  he'd  cross  the  Rio 

border  — 
Call   me    coward?     But   I   hailed  him  — "  Riding 

close  to  daylight,  Dan !  " 

Just  a  hair  and  he'd  have  got  me,  but  my  voice,  and 

not  the  warning, 
Caught   his   hand   and  held   him   steady;   then   he 

nodded,  spoke  my  name, 
Reined  his  pony  round  and  fanned  it  in  the  bright 

and  silent  morning, 
Back  across  the  sunlit  Rio  up  the  trail  on  which  he 

came. 

He  had  passed  his  word  to  cross  it  —  I  had  passed 

my  word  to  get  him  — 
We  broke  even  and  we  knew  it;  'twas  a  case  of  give 

and  take 
For  old  times.     I  could  have  killed  him  from  the 

brush;  instead,  I  let  him 
Ride  his  trail  —  I  turned  —  my  pardner  flung  his 

arm  and  stretched  awake; 


The  Shallows  of  the  Ford 

Saw  me  standing  in  the  open;  pulled  his  gun  and 

came  beside  me; 
Asked  a  question  with  his  shoulder  as  his  left  hand 

pointed  toward 
Muddy  streaks  that  thinned  and  vanished  —  not  a 

word,  but  hard  he  eyed  me 
As  the  water  cleared  and  sparkled  in  the  shallows  of 

the  ford. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs. 


THE  DANCE  AT  SILVER  VALLEY 

DON'T  you  hear  the  big  spurs  jingle? 
Don't  you  feel  the  red  blood  tingle? 
Be  it  smile  or  be  it  frown, 
Be  it  dance  or  be  it  fight, 
Broncho  Bill  has  come  to  town 
To  dance  a  dance  tonight. 

Chaps,  sombrero,  handkerchief,  silver  spurs  at  heel; 
"  Hello,  Gil!  "  and  "  Hello,  Pete  I  "  "  How  do  you 

think  you  feel?  " 
"  Drinks  are  mine.     Come  fall  in,  boys;  crowd  up 

on  the  right. 
Here's  happy  days  and  honey  joys.     I'm  going  to 

dance  tonight." 
(On  his  hip  in  leathern  tube,  a  case  of  dark  blue 

steel.) 

Bill,  the  broncho  buster,  from  the  ranch  at  Beaver 

Bend, 

Ninety  steers  and  but  one  life  in  his  hands  to  spend; 
Ready  for  a  fight  or  spree;  ready  for  a  race; 
Going  blind  with  bridle  loose  every  inch  of  space. 

Down  at  Johnny  Schaeffer's  place,  see  them  trooping 
in, 

5 


The  Dance  at  Silver  Valley 

Up  above  the  women  laugh;  down  below  is  gin. 
Belle  McClure  is  dressed  in  blue,  ribbon  in  her  hair; 
Broncho  Bill  is  shaved  and  slick,  all  his  throat  is 

bare. 
Round  and  round  with  Belle  McClure  he  whirls  a 

dizzy  spin. 

Jim  Kershaw,  the  gambler,  waits, —  white  his  hands 

and  slim. 
Bill  whispers,  "  Belle,  you  know  it  well;  it  is  me  or 

him. 
Jim  Kershaw,  so  help  me  God,  if  you  dance  with 

Belle 

It  is  either  you  or  me  must  travel  down  to  hell." 
Jim  put  his   arm   around  her  waist,   her  graceful 

waist  and  slim. 

Don't  you  hear  the  banjo  laugh?  Hear  the  fiddles 
scream? 

Broncho  Bill  leaned  at  the  door,  watched  the  twirl- 
ing stream. 

Twenty  fiends  were  at  his  heart  snarling,  "  Kill  him 
sure." 

(Out  of  hell  that  woman  came.)  "  I  love  you, 
Belle  McClure." 

Broncho  Bill,  he  laughed  and  chewed  and  careless 
he  did  seem. 

The    dance    is    done.     Shots    crack    as    one.     The 
crowd  shoves  for  the  door. 
6 


The  Dance  at  Silver  Falley 

Broncho  Bill  is  lying  there  and  blood  upon  the  floor. 
"  YouVe  finished  me;  youVe  gambler's  luck;  youVe 

won  the  trick  and  Belle. 
Mine  the  soul  that  here  tonight  is  passing  down  to 

hell. 
And  I  must  ride  the  trail  alone.     Goodbye  to  Belle 

McClure." 

Downstairs  on  the  billiard  cloth,   something  lying 

white, 
Upstairs  still  the  dance  goes  on,  all  the  lamps  are 

bright. 
Round  and  round  in  merry  spin  —  on  the  floor  a 

blot; 
Laugh   and   chaff    and   merry  spin  —  such   a   little 

spot. 
Broncho  Bill  has  come  to  town  and  danced  his  dance 

tonight. 

Don't  you  hear  the  fiddle  shrieking? 
Don't  you  hear  the  banjo  speaking? 
Don't  you  hear  the  big  spurs  jingle? 
Don't  you  feel  the  red  blood  tingle? 
Faces  dyed  with  desert  brown, 
(One  that's  set  and  white) ; 
Broncho  Bill  has  come  to  town 
And  danced  his  dance  tonight. 

William  Maxwell. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BOASTFUL  BILL 

AT  a  round-up  on  the  Gila 
One  sweet  morning  long  ago, 
Ten  of  us  was  throwed  quite  freely 
By  a  boss  from  Idaho. 
An'  we  'lowed  he'd  go  a-beggin' 
For  a  man  to  break  his  pride 
Till,  a-hitchin'  up  one  leggin', 
Boastful  Bill  cut  loose  an'  cried : 

"  I'm  a  ornery  proposition  for  to  hurt, 
I  fulfil  my  earthly  mission  with  a  quirt, 
I  can  ride  the  highest  liver 
'Twixt  the  Gulf  an'  Powder  River, 
An'  I'll  break  this  thing  as  easy  as  I'd 
flirt." 

So  Bill  climbed  the  Northern  fury 
An'  they  mangled  up  the  air 
Till  a  native  of  Missouri 
Would  have  owned,  the  brag  was  fair. 
Though  the  plunges  kept  him  reelin' 
An'  the  wind  it  flapped  his  shirt, 
Loud  above  the  boss's  squealin' 
We  could  hear  our  friend  assert: 

"  I'm  the  one  to  take  such  rockin's  as  a 
joke; 

8 


The  Legend  of  Boastful  Bill 

Someone  hand  me  up  the  makin's  of   a 

smoke. 

If  you  think  my  fame  needs  brightnin', 
Why,  I'll  rope  a  streak  o'  lightnin' 
An'  spur  it  up  an'  quirt  it  till  it's  broke." 

Then  one  caper  of  repulsion 

Broke  that  hoss's  back  in  two, 

Cinches  snapped  in  the  convulsion, 

Skyward  man  and  saddle  flew, 

Up  they  mounted,  never  flaggin', 

And  we  watched  them  through  our  tears, 

While  this  last,  thin  bit  o'  braggin' 

Came  a-floatin'  to  our  ears: 

"  If  you   ever   watched  my   habits  very 

close, 
You  would  know  I  broke  such  rabbits  by 

the  gross. 

I  have  kept  my  talent  hidin', 
I'm  too  good  for  earthly  ridin', 
So  I'm  off  to  bust  the  lightnin' — Adios!  " 

Years  have  passed  since  that  ascension; 
Boastful  Bill  ain't  never  lit; 
So  we  reckon  he's  a-wrenchin' 
Some  celestial  outlaw's  bit 
When  the  night  wind  flaps  our  slickers, 
And  the  rain  is  cold  and  stout, 
And  the  lightnin'  flares  and  flickers, 
We  can  sometimes  hear  him  shout : 
9 


The  Legend  of  Boastful  Bill 

"  I'm  a  ridin'  son  o'  thunder  o'  the  sky, 
I'm  a  broncho  twistin'  wonder  on  the  fly. 
Hey,  you  earthlin's,  shut  your  winders, 
We're  a-rippin'  clouds  to  flinders. 
If  this  blue-eyed  darlin'  kicks  at  you,  you 
die." 

Star-dust  on  his  chaps  and  saddle, 
Scornful  still  of  jar  and  jolt, 
He'll  come  back  sometime  a-straddle 
Of  a  bald-faced  thunderbolt; 
And  the  thin-skinned  generation 
Of  that  dim  and  distant  day 
Sure  will  stare  with  admiration 
When  they  hear  old  Boastful  say: 

"  I  was  first,  as  old  raw-hiders  all  confest, 
I'm  the  last  of  all  rough  riders,  and  the 

best. 

Huh!  you  soft  and  dainty  floaters 
With  your  aeroplanes  and  motors, 
Huh!  are  you  the  greatgrandchildren  of 
the  West?" 

From  recitation,  original,  by 
Charles  Badger  Clark,  Jr. 


10 


THE  TEXAS  COWBOY  AND  THE 
MEXICAN  GREASER 

I  THINK  we  can  all  remember  when  a  Greaser 
hadn't  no  show 

In  Palo  Pinto  particular, —  it  ain't  very  long  ago; 
A  powerful  feelin'  of  hatred  ag'in  the  whole  Greaser 

race 
That  murdered  bold  Crockett  and  Bowie  pervaded 

all  in  the  place. 
Why,  the  boys  would  draw  on  a  Greaser  as  quick 

as  they  would  on  a  steer; 
They  was  shot  down  without  warnin'  often,  in  the 

memory  of  many  here. 
One  day  the  bark  of  pistols  was  heard  ringin'  out 

in  the  air, 
And   a   Greaser,    chased  by   some   ranchmen,   tore 

round  here  into  the  square. 
I  don't  know  what  he's  committed, — 'tain't  likely 

anyone  knew, — 
But  I  wouldn't  bet  a  check  on  the  issue ;  if  you  knew 

the  gang,  neither  would  you. 
Breathless  and  bleeding,  the  Greaser  fell  down  by 

the  side  of  the  wall; 
And  a  man  sprang  out  before  him, —  a  man  both 

strong  and  tall, — 
By  his  clothes  I  should  say  a  cowboy, —  a  stranger 

in  town,  I  think, — 

ii 


The  Texas  Cowboy  and  the  Mexican  Greaser 

With  his  pistol  he  waved  back  the  gang,  who  was 

wild  with  rage  and  drink. 
"  I  warn  ye,  get  back!  "  he  said,  "  or  I'll  blow  your 

heads  in  two ! 
A  dozen  on  one  poor  creature,  and  him  wounded 

and  bleeding,  too !  " 
The  gang  stood  back  for  a  minute;  then  up  spoke 

Poker  Bill: 
"  Young  man,  yer  a  stranger,  I  reckon.     We  don't 

wish  yer  any  ill ; 
But  come  out  of  the  range  of  the  Greaser,  or,  as 

sure  as  I  live,  you'll  croak;  " 
And  he  drew  a  bead  on  the  stranger.     I'll  tell  yer 

it  wa'n't  no  joke. 
But  the  stranger  moven'  no  muscle  as  he  looked  in 

the  bore  of  Bill's  gun; 
He  hadn't  no   thought  to  stir,   sir;  he  hadn't  no 

thought  to  run; 
But  he  spoke  out  cool  and  quiet,  "  I  might  live  for 

a  thousand  year 
And  not   die   at  last   so   nobly   as   defendin'    this 

Greaser  here; 
For  he's  wounded,  now,  and  helpless,   and  hasn't 

had  no  fair  show; 
And  the  first  of  ye  boys  that  strikes  him,  I'll  lay 

that  first  one  low." 
The  gang  respected  the  stranger  that  for  another 

was  willing  to  die; 
They  respected  the  look  of  daring  they  saw  in  that 

cold,  blue  eye. 

12 


The  Texas  Cowboy  and  the  Mexican  Greaser 

They  saw  before  them  a  hero  that  was  glad  in  the 

right  to  fall; 
And  he  was  a  Texas  cowboy, —  never  heard  of  Rome 

at  all. 
Don't  tell  me  of  yer  Romans,  or  yer  bridge  bein' 

held  by  three; 
True  manhood's  the  same  in  Texas  as  it  was  in 

Rome,  d'ye  see? 
Did  the  Greaser  escape?     Why  certain.     I  saw  the 

hull  crowd  over  thar 
At  the  ranch  of  Bill  Simmons,  the  gopher,  with  their 

glasses  over  the  bar. 

From  recitation.     Anonymous. 


BRONCHO  VERSUS  BICYCLE 

THE  first  that  we  saw  of  the  high-tone  tramp 
War  over  thar  at  our  Pecos  camp ; 
He  war  comin'  down  the  Santa  Fe  trail 
Astride  of  a  wheel  with  a  crooked  tail, 
A-skinnin'  along  with  a  merry  song 
An'  a-ringin'  a  little  warnin'  gong. 
He  looked  so  outlandish,  strange  and  queer 
That  all  of  us  grinned  from  ear  to  ear, 
And  every  boy  on  the  round-up  swore 
He  never  seed  sich  a  hoss  before. 

Wai,  up  he  rode  with  a  sunshine  smile 

An'  a-smokin'  a  cigarette,  an'  I'll 

Be  kicked  in  the  neck  if  I  ever  seen 

Sich  a  saddle  as  that  on  his  queer  machine. 

Why,  it  made  us  laugh,  fer  it  wasn't  half 

Big  enough  fer  the  back  of  a  suckin'  calf. 

He  tuk  our  fun  in  a  keerless  way, 

A-venturin'  only  once  to  say 

Thar  wasn't  a  broncho  about  the  place 

Could  down  that  wheel  in  a  ten-mile  race. 

I'd  a  lightnin'  broncho  out  in  the  herd 
That  could  split  the  air  like  a  flyin'  bird, 


Broncho  Versus  Bicycle 

An'  I  hinted  round  in  an  off-hand  way, 
That,  providin'   the   enterprize  would  pay, 
I  thought  as  I  might  jes'  happen  to  light 
On  a  hoss  that  would  leave  him  out  er  sight. 
In  less'n  a  second  we  seen  him  yank 
A  roll  o'  greenbacks  out  o'  his  flank, 
An'  he  said  if  we  wanted  to  bet,  to  name 
The  limit,  an'  he  would  tackle  the  game. 

Jes'  a  week  before  we  had  all  been  down 

On  a  jamboree  to  the  nearest  town, 

An'  the  whiskey  joints  and  the  faro  games 

An'  a-shakin'  our  hoofs  with  the  dance  hall  dames, 

Made  a  wholesale  bust;  an',  pard,  I'll  be  cussed 

If  a  man  in  the  outfit  had  any  dust. 

An'  so  I  explained,  but  the  youth  replied 

That  he'd  lay  the  money  matter  aside, 

An'  to  show  that  his  back  didn't  grow  no  moss 

He'd  bet  his  machine  against  my  hoss. 

I  tuk  him  up,  an'  the  bet  war  closed, 

An'  me  a-chucklin',  fer  I  supposed 

I  war  playin'  in  dead-sure,  winnin'  luck 

In  the  softest  snap  I  had  ever  struck, 

An'  the  boys  chipped  in  with  a  knowin'  grin, 

Fer  they  thought  the  fool  had  no  chance  to  win. 

An'  so  we  agreed  fer  to  run  that  day 

To  the  Navajo  cross,  ten  miles  away, — 

As  handsome  a  track  as  you  ever  seed 

Fer  testin'  a  bosses  prettiest  speed. 


Broncho  Versus  Bicycle 

Apache  Johnson  and  Texas  Ned 

Saddled  up  their  hosses  an'  rode  ahead 

To  station  themselves  ten  miles  away 

An'  act  as  judges  an'  see  fair  play; 

While  Mexican  Bart  and  big  Jim  Hart 

Stayed  back  fer  to  give  us  an  even  start. 

I  got  aboard  of  my  broncho  bird 

An'  we  came  to  the  scratch  an'  got  the  word; 

An'  I  laughed  till  my  mouth  spread  from  ear  to  ear 

To  see  that  tenderfoot  drop  to  the  rear. 

The  first  three  miles  slipped  away  first-rate; 
Then  bronc  began  fer  to  lose  his  gait. 
But  I  warn't  oneasy  an'  didn't  mind 
With  tenderfoot  more'n  a  mile  behind. 
So  I  jogged  along  with  a  cowboy  song 
Till  all  of  a  sudden  I  heard  that  gong 
A-ringin'  a  warnin'  in  my  ear  — 
Ting,  ting,  tmgy  ting, —  too  infernal  near; 
An'  lookin'  backwards  I  seen  that  chump 
Of  a  tenderfoot  gainin'  every  jump. 

I  hit  old  bronc  a  cut  with  the  quirt 
An'  once  more  got  him  to  scratchin'  dirt; 
But  his  wind  got  weak,  an'  I  tell  you,  boss, 
I  seen  he  wasn't  no  ten-mile  hoss. 
Still,  the  plucky  brute  took  another  shoot 
An'  pulled  away  from  the  wheel  galoot. 
But  the  animal  couldn't  hold  his  gait; 
An'  the  idea  somehow  entered  my  pate 

16 


Broncho  Versus  Bicycle 

That  if  tenderfoot's  legs  didn't  lose  their  grip 
He'd  own  that  hoss  at  the  end  of  the  trip. 

Closer  an'  closer  come  tenderfoot, 

An'  harder  the  whip  to  the  hoss  I  put; 

But  the  Eastern  cuss,  with  a  smile  on  his  face 

Ran  up  to  my  side  with  his  easy  pace  — 

Rode  up  to  my  side,  an'  dern  his  hide, 

Remarked  'twere  a  pleasant  day  fer  a  ride; 

Then  axed,  onconcerned,  if  I  had  a  match, 

An'  on  his  britches  give  it  a  scratch, 

Lit  a  cigarette,  said  he  wished  me  good-day, 

An'  as  fresh  as  a  daisy  scooted  away. 

Ahead  he  went,  that  infernal  gong 

A-ringin'  "  good-day  "  as  he  flew  along, 

An'  the  smoke  from  his  cigarette  came  back 

Like  a  vaporous  snicker  along  his  track. 

On  an'  on  he  sped,  gettin'  further  ahead, 

His  feet  keepin'  up  that  onceaseable  tread, 

Till  he  faded  away  in  the  distance,  an'  when 

I  seed  the  condemned  Eastern  rooster  again 

He  war  thar  with  the  boys  at  the  end  of  the  race, 

That  same  keerless,  onconsarned  smile  on  his  face. 

Now,  pard,  when  a  cowboy  gits  licked  he  don't  swar 
Nor  kick,  if  the  beatin'  are  done  on  the  squar; 
So  I  tuck  that  Easterner  right  by  the  hand 
An'  told  him  that  broncho  awaited  his  brand. 
Then  I  axed  him  his  name,  an'  where  from  he  came, 

17 


Broncho  Versus  Bicycle 

An'  how  long  he'd  practiced  that  wheel-rollin'  game. 
Tom  Stevens  he  said  war  his  name,  an'  he  come 
From  a  town  they  call  Bosting,  in  old  Yankeedom. 
Then  he  jist  paralyzed  us  by  sayin'  he'd  whirled 
That  very  identical  wheel  round  the  world. 

Wai,  pard,  that's  the  story  of  how  that  smart  chap 
Done  me  up  w'en  I  thought  I  had  sich  a  soft  snap, 
Done  me  up  on  a  race  with  remarkable  ease, 
An'  lowered  my  pride  a  good  many  degrees. 
Did  I  give  him  the  hoss  ?     W'y  o'  course  I  did,  boss, 
An'  I  tell  you  it  warn't  no  diminutive  loss. 
He  writ  me  a  letter  from  back  in  the  East, 
An'  said  he  presented  the  neat  little  beast 
To  a  feller  named  Pope,  who  stands  at  the  head 
O'  the  ranch  where  the  cussed  wheel  hosses  are  bred. 

Anonymous. 


18 


RIDERS  OF  THE  STARS 

TWENTY  abreast  down  the  Golden  Street  ten 
thousand  riders  marched; 
Bow-legged  boys  in  their  swinging  chaps,  all  clumsily 

keeping  time; 
And  the  Angel  Host  to  the  lone,  last  ghost  their 

delicate  eyebrows  arched 

As  the  swaggering  sons  of  the  open  range  drew 
up  to  the  throne  sublime. 

Gaunt  and  grizzled,  a  Texas  man  from  out  of  the 

concourse  strode, 
And  doffed  his  hat  with  a  rude,  rough  grace,  then 

lifted  his  eagle  head; 
The  sunlit  air  on  his  silvered  hair  and  the  bronze 

of  his  visage  glowed; 
"  Marster,  the  boys  have  a  talk  to  make  on  the 

things  up  here,"  he  said. 

A  hush  ran  over  the  waiting  throng  as  the  Cherubim 

replied : 
"  He  that  readeth  the  hearts  of  men  He  deemeth 

your  challenge  strange, 
Though  He  long  hath  known  that  ye  crave  your 

own,  that  ye  would  not  walk  but  ride, 
Oh,  restless  sons  of  the  ancient  earth,  ye  men  of  the 

open  range!  " 

19 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

Then  warily  spake  the  Texas  man:     "A  petition 

and  no  complaint 
We  here  present,  if  the  Law  allows  and  the  Marster 

He  thinks  it  fit; 

• 

We-all  agree  to  the  things  that  be,  but  we're  long- 
ing for  things  that  ain't, 

So  we  took  a  vote  and  we  made  a  plan  and  here  is 
the  plan  we  writ :  — 

11 '  Give  us  a  range  and  our  horses  and  ropes,  open 

the  Pearly  Gate, 
And  turn  us  loose  in  the  unfenced  blue  riding  the 

sunset  rounds, 
Hunting  each  stray  in  the  Milky  Way  and  running 

the  Rancho  straight; 
Not  crowding  the  dogie  stars  too  much  on  their  way 

to  the  bedding-grounds. 

"  '  Maverick  comets  that's  running  wild,  we'll  rope 
'em  and  brand  'em  fair, 

So  they'll  quit  stampeding  the  starry  herd  and  scar- 
ing the  folks  below, 

And  we'll  save  'em  prime  for  the  round-up  time, 
and  we  riders'll  all  be  there, 

Ready  and  willing  to  do  our  work  as  we  did  in  the 
long  ago. 

" '  We've    studied    the    Ancient    Landmarks,    Sir; 
Taurus,  the  Bear,  and  Mars, 
20 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

And  Venus  a-smiling  across  the  west  as  bright  as  a 

burning  coal, 
Plain  to  guide  as  we  punchers  ride  night-herding 

the  little  stars, 
With  Saturn's  rings  f$r  our  home  corral  and  the 

Dipper  our  water  hole. 

"  '  Here,  we  have  nothing  to  do  but  yarn  of  the 

days  that  have  long  gone  by, 
And  our  singing  it  doesn't  fit  in  up  here  though  we 

tried  it  for  old  time's  sake; 
Our  hands  are  itching  to  swing  a  rope  and  our  legs 

are  stiff;  that's  why 
We  ask  you,  Marster,  to  turn  us  loose  —  just  give 

us  an  even  break!  '  " 

Then  the  Lord  He  spake  to  the  Cherubim,  and  this 

was  His  kindly  word : 
"  He  that  keepeth  the  threefold  keys  shall  open  and 

let  them  go; 
Turn  these  men  to  their  work  again  to  ride  with  the 

starry  herd; 
My  glory  sings  in  the  toil  they  crave;   'tis  their 

right.     I  would  have  it  so." 

Have  you  heard  in  the  starlit  dusk  of  eve  when  the 

lone  coyotes  roam, 
The   Yip  I     Yip!     Yip!  of  a  hunting  cry  and  the 

echo  that  shrilled  afar, 
21 


Riders  of  the  Stars 

As  you  listened  still  on  a  desert  hill  and  gazed  at 

the  twinkling  dome, 
And  a  viewless  rider  swept  the  sky  on  the  trail  of 

a  shooting  star? 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs. 


22 


LASCA 

I  WANT  free  life,  and  I  want  fresh  air; 
And  I  sigh  for  the  canter  after  the  cattle, 
The  crack  of  the  whips  like  shots  in  battle, 
The  medley  of  hoofs  and  horns  and  heads 
That  wars  and  wrangles  and  scatters  and  spreads; 
The  green  beneath  and  the  blue  above, 
And  dash  and  danger,  and  life  and  love  — 
^And  Lasca! 

Lasca  used  to  ride 

On  a  mouse-grey  mustang  close  to  my  side, 
With  blue  scrape  and  bright-belled  spur; 
I  laughed  with  joy  as  I  looked  at  her! 
Little  knew  she  of  books  or  creeds ; 
An  Ave  Maria  sufficed  her  needs; 
Little  she  cared  save  to  be  at  my  side, 
To  ride  with  me,  and  ever  to  ride, 
From  San  Saba's  shore  to  Lavaca's  tide. 
She  was  as  bold  as  the  billows  that  beat, 
She  was  as  wild  as  the  breezes  that  blow: 
From  her  little  head  to  her  little  feet, 
She  was  swayed  in  her  suppleness  to  and  fro 
By  each  gust  of  passion;  a  sapling  pine 
That  grows  on  the  edge  of  a  Kansas  bluff 
And  wars  with  the  wind  when  the  weather  is  rough, 
Is  like  this  Lasca,  this  love  of  mine. 

23 


Lasca 

She  would  hunger  that  I  might  eat, 
Would  take  the  bitter  and  leave  me  the  sweet; 
But  once,  when  I  made  her  jealous  for  fun 
At  something  I  whispered  or  looked  or  done, ' 
One  Sunday,  in  San  Antonio, 
To  a  glorious  girl  in  the  Alamo, 
She  drew  from  her  garter  a  little  dagger, 
And  —  sting  of  a  wasp  —  it  made  me  stagger ! 
An  inch  to  the  left,  or  an  inch  to  the  right, 
And  I  shouldn't  be  maundering  here  tonight; 
But  she  sobbed,  and  sobbing,  so  quickly  bound 
Her  torn  rebosa  about  the  wound 
That  I  swiftly  forgave  her.     Scratches  don't  count 
In  Texas,  down  by  the  Rio  Grande. 

Her  eye  was  brown  —  a  deep,  deep  brown; 
Her  hair  was  darker  than  her  eye; 
And  something  in  her  smile  and  frown, 
Curled  crimson  lip  and  instep  high, 
Showed  that  there  ran  in  each  blue  vein, 
Mixed  with  the  milder  Aztec  strain, 
The  vigorous  vintage  of  Old  Spain. 
She  was  alive  in  every  limb 
With  feeling,  to  the  finger  tips; 
And  when  the  sun  is  like  a  fire, 
And  sky  one  shining,  soft  sapphire 
One  does  not  drink  in  little  sips. 

•  •••••« 

The  air  was  heavy,  the  night  was  hot, 
I  sat  by  her  side  and  forgot,  forgot; 

24 


Lasca 

Forgot  the  herd  that  were  taking  their  rest, 
Forgot  that  the  air  was  close  oppressed, 
That  the  Texas  norther  comes  sudden  and  soon, 
In  the  dead  of  the  night  or  the  blaze  of  the  noon; 
That,  once  let  the  herd  at  its  breath  take  fright, 
Nothing  on  earth  can  stop  their  flight; 
And  woe  to  the  rider,  and  woe  to  the  steed, 
That  falls  in  front  of  their  mad  stampede! 

Was  that  thunder?     I  grasped  the  cord 

Of  my  swift  mustang  without  a  word. 

I  sprang  to  the  saddle,  and  she  clung  behind. 

Away !  on  a  hot  chase  down  the  wind ! 

But  never  was  fox-hunt  half  so  hard, 

And  never  was  steed  so  little  spared. 

For  we  rode  for  our  lives.     You  shall  hear  how  we 

fared 
In  Texas,  down  by  the  Rio  Grande. 


The  mustang  flew,  and  we  urged  him  on; 

There  was  one  chance  left,  and  you  have  but  one  — 

Halt,  jump  to  the  ground,  and  shoot  your  horse; 

Crouch  under  his  carcass,  and  take  your  chance ; 

And  if  the  steers  in  their  frantic  course 

Don't  batter  you  both  to  pieces  at  once, 

You  may  thank  your  star;  if  not,  goodbye 

To  the  quickening  kiss  and  the  long-drawn  sigh, 

And  the  open  air  and  the  open  sky, 

In  Texas,  down  by  the  Rio  Grande. 
25 


Lasca 

The  cattle  gained  on  us,  and,  just  as  I  felt 
For  my  old  six-shooter  behind  in  my  belt, 
Down  came  the  mustang,  and  down  came  we, 
Clinging  together  —  and,  what  was  the  rest? 
A  body  that  spread  itself  on  my  breast, 
Two  arms  that  shielded  my  dizzy  head, 
Two  lips  that  hard  to  my  lips  were  prest; 
Then  came  thunder  in  my  ears, 
As  over  us  surged  the  sea  of  steers, 
Blows  that  beat  blood  into  my  eyes, 
And  when  I  could  rise  >. — 
Lasca  was  dead! 

I  gouged  out  a  grave  a  few  feet  deep, 

And  there  in  the  Earth's  arms  I  laid  her  to  sleep; 

And  there  she  is  lying,  and  no  one  knows ; 

And  the  summer  shines,  and  the  winter  snows; 

For  many  a  day  the  flowers  have  spread 

A  pall  of  petals  over  her  head; 

And  the  little  grey  hawk  hangs  aloft  in  the  air, 

And  the  sly  coyote  trots  here  and  there, 

And  the  black  snake  glides  and  glitters  and  slides 

Into  the  rift  of  a  cottonwood  tree; 

And  the  buzzard  sails  on, 

And  comes  and  is  gone, 

Stately  and  still,  like  a  ship  at  sea. 

And  I  wonder  why  I  do  not  care 

For  the  things  that  are,  like  the  things  that  were. 

Does  half  my  heart  lie  buried  there 

In  Texas,  down  by  the  Rio  Grande? 

Frank  Desprez. 


26 


THE  TRANSFORMATION  OF  A  TEXAS 
GIRL 

SHE  was  a  Texas  maiden,  she  came  of  low  degree, 
Her  clothes  were  worn  and  faded,  her  feet  from 

shoes  were  free; 
Her  face  was  tanned  and  freckled,  her  hair  was 

sun-burned,  too, 
Her  whole  darned  tout  ensemble  was  painful  for  to 

view! 
She  drove  a  lop-eared  mule  team  attached  unto  a 

plow, 

The  trickling  perspiration  exuding  from  her  brow; 
And  often  she  lamented  her  cruel,  cruel  fate, 
As  but  a  po'  white's  daughter  down  in  the  Lone  Star 
State. 

No  courtiers  came  to  woo  her,  she  never  had  a 

beau, 
Her  misfit  face  precluded  such  things  as  that,  you 

know, — 

She  was  nobody's  darling,  no  feller's  solid  girl, 
And  poets  never  called  her  an  uncut  Texas  pearl. 
Her  only  two  companions  was  those  two  flea-bit 

mules, 

And  these  she  but  regarded  as  animated  tools 
To  plod  along  the  furrows  in  patience  up  and  down 
And  pull  the  ancient  wagon  when  pap'd  go  to  town. 

27 


The  Transformation  of  a  Texas  Girl 

No  fires  of  wild  ambition  were  flaming  in  her  soul, 
Her  eyes  with  tender  passion  she'd  never  upward 

roll; 
The  wondrous  world  she'd  heard  of,  to  her  was  but 

a  dream 
As  walked  she  in  the  furrows  behind  that  lop-eared 

team. 
Born    on    that    small    plantation,    'twas    there    she 

thought  she'd  die; 
She  never  longed  for  pinions  that  she  might  rise  and 

fly 
To  other  lands  far  distant,  where  breezes  fresh  and 

cool 
Would  never  shake  and  tremble  from  brayings  of  a 

mule. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

But  yesterday  we  saw  her  dressed  up  in  gorgeous 

style ! 

A  half  a  dozen  fellows  were  basking  in  her  smile ! 
She'd  jewels  on  her  fingers,  and  jewels  in  her  ears  — 
Great   sparkling,    flashing   brilliants   that   hung    as 

frozen  tears ! 
The  feet  once  nude  and  soil-stained  were  clad  in 

Frenchy  boots, 
The  once  tanned  face  bore  tintings  of  miscellaneous 

fruits ; 
The  voice  that  once  admonished  the  mules  to  move 

along 
Was  tuned  to  new-born  music,  as  sweet  as  Siren's 

song ! 

28 


The  Transformation  of  a  Texas  Girl 

Her  tall  and  lanky  father,  one  knows  as  "  Sleepy 

Jim," 

Is  now  addressed  as  Colonel  by  men  who  honor  him; 
And  youths  in  finest  raiment  now  take  him  by  the 

paw, 
Each  in  the  hope  that  some  day  he'll  call  him  dad- 

in-law. 
Their  days  of  toil  are  over,  their  sun  has  risen  at 

last, 
A  gold-embroidered  curtain  now  hides  their  rocky 

past; 

For  was  it  not  discovered  their  little  patch  of  soil 
Had  rested  there  for  ages  above  a  flow  of  oil? 

James  Barton  Adams. 


29 


THE  GLORY  TRAIL 

>T  T  7 AY  high  up  the  Mogollons,1 
VV     Among  the  mountain  tops, 
A  lion  cleaned  a  yearlin's  bones 
And  licked  his  thankful  chops, 
When  on  the  picture  who  should  ride, 
A-trippin'  down  the  slope, 
But  High-Chin  Bob,  with  sinful  pride 
And  mav' rick-hungry  rope. 

"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me,"  says  he, 
"  And  fame's  unfadin'  flowers! 
All  meddlin'  hands  are  far  away; 
I  ride  my  good  top-hawse  today 
And  I'm  top-rope  of  the  Lazy  J  — 
Hi!  kitty  cat,  you're  ours!  " 

That  lion  licked  his  paw  so  brown 
And  dreamed  soft  dreams  of  veal  — 
And  then  the  circlin'  loop  sung  down 
And  roped  him  'round  his  meal. 
He  yowled  quick  fury  to  the  world 
Till  all  the  hills  yelled  back; 
The  top-hawse  gave  a  snort  and  whirled 
And  Bob  caught  up  the  slack. 

1  Pronounced  by  the  natives  "  muggy-yones." 

30 


The  Glory   Trail 

"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me,"  laughs  he. 

"  We  hit  the  glory  trail. 

No  human  man  as  I  have  read 

Darst  loop  a  ragiri  lion's  head, 

Nor  ever  hawse  could  drag  one  dead 

Until  we  told  the  tale" 

'Way  high  up  the  Mogollons 

That  top-hawse  done  his  best, 

Through  whippin'  brush  and  rattlin'  stones, 

From  canyon-floor  to  crest. 

But  ever  when  Bob  turned  and  hoped 

A  limp  remains  to  find, 

A  red-eyed  lion,  belly  roped 

But  healthy,  loped  behind. 

"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me,"  grunts  he, 

"  This  glory  trail  is  rough, 

Yet  even  till  the  Judgment  Morn 

I'll  keep  this  dally  'round  the  horn, 

For  never  any  hero  born 

Could  stoop  to  holler:  '  nuff!'" 

Three  suns  had  rode  their  circle  home 

Beyond  the  desert's  rim, 

And  turned  their  star  herds  loose  to  roam 

The  ranges  high  and  dim; 

Yet  up  and  down  and  round  and  'cross 

Bob  pounded,  weak  and  wan, 

For  pride  still  glued  him  to  his  hawse 

And  glory  drove  him  on. 


The  Glory   Trail 

"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me"  sighs  he. 
"  He  kaint  be  drug  to  death, 
But  now  I  know  beyond  a  doubt 
Them  heroes  I  have  read  about 
Was  only  fools  that  stuck  it  out 
To  end  of  mortal  breath" 

'Way  high  up  the  Mogollons 

A  prospect  man  did  swear 

That  moon  dreams  melted  down  his  bones 

And  hoisted  up  his  hair : 

A  ribby  cow-hawse  thundered  by, 

A  lion  trailed  along, 

A  rider,  ga'nt,  but  chin  on  high, 

Yelled  out  a  crazy  song. 

"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me!  "  cries  he, 
"  And  to  my  noble  noose! 

0  stranger,  tell  my  pards  below 

1  took  a  rampin'  dream  in  tow, 
And  if  I  never  lay  him  low, 
I'll  never  turn  him  loose!  " 

Charles  Badger  Clark. 


HIGH  CHIN  BOB 

'TT7AY  high  up  in  the  Mokiones,  among  the 

V V         mountain  tops, 

A  lion  cleaned  a  yearling's  bones  and  licks  his  thank- 
ful chops; 
And  who  upon  the  scene  should  ride,  a-trippin'  down 

the  slope, 

But  High  Chin  Bob  of  sinful  pride  and  maverick- 
hungry  rope. 
"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me  I  "  says  he,  "  an'  fame's 

unfadin'  flowers; 
I  ride  my  good  top  hoss  today  and  Fm  top  hand 

of  Lazy-J, 
So,  kitty-cat,  you're  ours !  " 

The  lion  licked  his  paws  so  brown,  and  dreamed  soft 

dreams  of  veal, 
As  High  Chin's  rope  came  circlin'  down  and  roped 

him  round  his  meal; 
She  yowled  quick  fury  to  the  world  and  all  the  hills 

yelled  back; 
That  top  horse  gave  a  snort  and  whirled  and  Bob 

took  up  the  slack. 
"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me !  "  says  he,  "  we'll  hit  the 

glory  trail. 

33 


High  Chin  Bob 

No  man  has  looped  a  lion's  head  and  lived  to 

drag  the  critter  dead 
Till  I  shall  tell  the  tale." 

'Way  high  up  in  the  Mokiones  that  top  hoss  done  his 

best, 

'Mid  whippin'  brush  and  rattlin'  stones  from  canon- 
floor  to  crest; 
Up  and  down  and  round  and  cross  Bob  pounded 

weak  and  wan, 
But  pride   still   glued  him   to   his   hoss   and  glory 

spurred  him  on. 
"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me !  "  says  he,  "  this  glory 

trail  is  rough ! 
But  I'll  keep  this  dally  round  the  horn  until 

the  toot  of  judgment  morn 
Before  I'll  holler  'nough!" 

Three   suns   had  rode   their   circle   home,   beyond 

the  desert  rim, 
And  turned  their  star  herds  loose  to  roam  the  ranges 

high  and  dim; 

And  whenever  Bob  turned  and  hoped  the  limp  re- 
mains to  find, 

A  red-eyed  lion,  belly  roped,  but  healthy,  loped  be- 
hind! 
"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me,"  says  Bob,  "  he  caint 

be  drug  to  death ! 
These  heroes  that  I've  read  about  were  only 

fools  that  stuck  it  out 
To  the  end  of  mortal  breath." 
34 


High  Chin  Bob 

'Way  high  up  in  the  Mokiones,  if  you  ever  camp 

there  at  night, 
You'll  hear  a  rukus  among  the  stones  that'll  lift 

your  hair  with  fright; 
You'll   see   a   cow-hoss   thunder   by  —  a   lion   trail 

along, 
And  the  rider  bold,  with  his  chin  on  high,  sings  forth 

his  glory  song : 
"  Oh,  glory  be  to  me!  "  says  he,  "  and  to  my 

mighty  noose. 
Oh,  pardner,  tell  my  friends  below  I  took  a 

ragin'  dream  in  tow, 

And  if  I  didn't  lay  him  low,  I  never  turned  him 
loose!" 

From  oral  rendition. 


35 


TO  HEAR  HIM  TELL  IT 

I  WAS  just  about  to  take  a  drink  — 
I  was  mighty  dry  — 
So  I  hailed  an  old  time  cowman 
Who  was  passing  by, 
"  Come  in,  Ole  Timer!  have  a  drink! 
Kinda  warm  today!" 
As  we  leaned  across  the  bar-rail  — 
"  How's  things  up  your  way?  " 

"  Stock  is  doin'  fairly  good, 

Range  is  gettin'  fine; 

I  jes  dropped  down  to  meetin'  here 

To  spend  a  little  time. 

Con'sidable  stuff  a-movin'  now  — 

Cows  an'  hosses,  too, 

Prices  high  an'  a  big  demand  — 

Now  I'm  tellin'  you ! 

"  I've  loaded  out  my  feeders,   . , 

Got  a  good  price  all  aroun' ; 

Sold  'em  in  Kansas  City 

To  a  commission  man  named  Brown. 

A  thousand  told  o'  mixed  stuff, 

In  pretty  fair  shape,  too," 

Said  the  old  Texas  cowman, 

"  Now  I'm  tellin'  you! 

36 


To  Hear  Him  Tell  It 

"  IVe  been  in  this  yere  country 

Since  late  in  fifty-nine, 

I  know  every  foot  o'  sage  brush 

Clear  to  the  southern  line. 

Got  my  first  bunch  started  up 

Long  in  seventy-two, 

Had  to   ride   range  with   a  long  rope  — 

Now  I'm  tellin'  you ! 

"  Lordy,  I  kin  remember 

Them  good  ole  early  days 

When  we  ust  t'  trail  the  herds  north 

*N  forty  different  ways. 

Jes'n  point  'em   from  the  beddin'   groun' 

An'  let  'em  drift  right  through," 

Said  the  reminiscent  cowman, 

"  Now  I'm  tellin'  you ! 

"  Yessir,  trailed  'em  up  to  Wichita, 

Cross  the  Kansas  line, 

Made  deliveries  at  Benton 

As  early  as  fifty-nine. 

Turned  'em  most  to  soldiers, 

Some  went  to  Injuns,  too, 

Beef  wasn't  nigh  so  high  then  — 

Now  I'm  tellin'  you ! 

"  Son,  I've  fit  nigh  every  Injun 
That  ever  roamed  the  plains, 
'N  I  was  one  o'  the  best  hands 

37 


To  Hear  Him  Tell  It 

That  ever  pulled  bridle  reins. 

Why,  you  boys  don't  know  range  life  — 

You  don't  seem  to  git  the  ways, 

Like  we  did  down  in  Texas 

In  them  good  oP  early  days ! 

"  Yes,  thing's  a  heap  sight  diff'rent  now! 

'Tain't  like  in  them  oF  days 

When   cowmen   trailed  their   herds   north 

'N  forty  diff'rent  ways. 

We  ship  'em  on  the  railroad  now, 

Load  out  on  the  big  S.  P.," 

Says  the  relic  of  Texas  cowman 

As  he  takes  a  drink  with  me. 

"  I  figger  on  buyin'  more  feeders, 

From  down  across  the  line  — 

Chihuahua  an'  Sonora  stuff, 

An'  hold  'em  till  they're  prime. 

So  here's  to  the  steers  an'  yearlin's!" 

As  we  clink  our  glasses  two, 

"  Things  ain't  the  same  as  they  used  to  be, 

Now  I'm  tellin'  you! 

"  I  got  t'  git  out  an'  hustle, 

I  ain't  got  time  t'  stay; 

Jes'   want  t'   see   some   uh   the  boys 

'N  then  I'm  on  my  way. 

There's  many  a   hand  here   right  now 

That  I  know'd  long,  long  ago, 

38 


To  Hear  Him  Tell  It 

When  ranch  land  was  free  an'  open 
An'  the  plowman  had  a  show. 

44  Tain't  often  we  git  together 

To  swap  yarns  an'  tell  our  lies," 

Said  the  old  time  Texas  cowman 

As  a  mist  comes  to  his  eyes. 

44  So  let's  drink  up;  here's  how!  " 

As  we  drain  our  glasses  two, 

44  Them  was  good  ol'  days  an'  good  ol'  ways  — 

Now  I'm  tellin'  you!  " 

He  talked  and  talked  and  yarned  away, 

He  harped  on  days  of  yore  — 

My  head  it  ached  and  I  grew  faint; 

My  legs  got  tired  and  sore. 

Then  a  woman  yelled,  44  You  come  here,  John!" 

And  Lordy!  how  he  flew! 

And  the  last  I  heard  as  he  broke  and  ran 

Was,  44Now  I'm  tellin'  you!" 

I  won't  never  hail  old  timers 

To  have  a  drink  with  me, 

To  learn  the  history  of  the  range 

As  far  back  as  seventy-three. 

And  the  next  time  that  I'm  thirsty 

And  feeling  kind  of  blue, 

I'll  step  right  up  and  drink  alone  — 

Now  I'm  tellin'  you! 

From  the  Wild  Bunch. 
39 


THE  CLOWN'S  BABY 

IT  was  on  the  western  frontier, — 
The  miners,  rugged  and  brown, 
Were  gathered  round  the  posters, 
The  circus  had  come  to  town! 
The  great  tent  shone  in  the  darkness 
Like  a  wonderful  palace  of  light, 
And  rough  men  crowded  the  entrance, — 
Shows  didn't  come  every  night! 

Not  a  woman's  face  among  them; 

Many  a  face  that  was  bad, 

And  some  that  were  only  vacant, 

And  some  that  were  very  sad. 

And  behind  a  canvas  curtain, 

In  a  corner  of  the  place, 

The  clown,  with  chalk  and  vermillion, 

Was  "  making  up  "  his  face. 

A  weary  looking  woman 
With  a  smile  that  still  was  sweet, 
Sewed  on  a  little  garment, 
With  a  cradle  at  her  feet. 
Pantaloon  stood  ready  and  waiting, 
It  was  time  for  the  going  on ; 
But  the  clown  in  vain  searched  wildly, — ; 
The  "  property  baby  "  was  gone ! 

40 


The  Clown's  Baby 

He  murmured,  impatiently  hunting, 

"  It's  strange  that  I  cannot  find  — 

There,  I've  looked  in  every  corner; 

It  must  have  been  left  behind!  " 

The  miners  were  stamping  and  shouting, 

They  were  not  patient  men; 

The  clown  bent  over  the  cradle, — 

"  I  must  take  you,  little  Ben." 

The  mother  started  and  shivered, 

But  trouble  and  want  were  near; 

She  lifted  the  baby  gently, 

"  You'll  be  very  careful,  dear?  " 

"  Careful?     You  foolish  darling!" 

How  tenderly  it  was  said! 

What  a  smile  shone  through  the  chalk  and  paint! 

"  I  love  each  hair  of  his  head!  " 

The  noise  rose  into  an  uproar, 

Misrule  for  the  time  was  king; 

The  clown  with  a  foolish  chuckle 

Bolted  into  the  ring. 

But  as,  with  a  squeak  and  flourish, 

The  fiddles  closed  their  tune 

"  You'll  hold  him  as  if  he  were  made  of  glass?" 

Said  the  clown  to  the  pantaloon. 

The  jovial  fellow  nodded, 

"  I've  a  couple  myself,"  he  said. 

"  I  know  how  to  handle  'em,  bless  you ! 


The  Clown's  Baby 

Old  fellow,  go  ahead !  " 

The  fun  grew  fast  and  furious, 

And  not  one  of  all  the  crowd 

Had  guessed  that  the  baby  was  alive, 

When  he  suddenly  laughed  aloud. 

Oh,  that  baby  laugh !     It  was  echoed 

From  the  benches  with  a  ring, 

And   the   roughest   customer   there   sprang  up 

With,  "  Boys,  it's  the  real  thing." 

The  ring  was  jammed  in  a  minute, 

Not  a  man  that  did  not  strive 

For  a  "  shot  at  holding  the  baby," — 

The  baby  that  was  alive! 

He  was  thronged  with  kneeling  suitors 

In  the  midst  of  the  dusty  ring, 

And  he  held  his  court  right  royally, — 

The  fair  little  baby  king, — 

Till  one  of  the  shouting  courtiers, — 

A  man  with  a  bold,  hard  face, 

The  talk,  for  miles,  of  the  country, 

And  the  terror  of  the  place, 

Raised  the  little  king  to  his  shoulder 
And  chuckled,  "  Look  at  that!  " 
As  the  chubby  fingers  clutched  his  hair; 
Then,  "  Boys,  hand  round  the  hat!  " 
There  never  was  such  a  hatful 
Of  silver  and  gold  and  notes ; 

42 


The  Clown's  Baby 

People  are  not  always  penniless 
Because  they  don't  wear  coats. 

And  then,  "  Three  cheers  for  the  baby!" 
I  tell  you  those  cheers  were  meant, 
And  the  way  that  they  were  given 
Was  enough  to  raise  the  tent. 
And  then  there  was  sudden  silence 
And  a  gruff  old  miner  said, 
"  Come  boys,  enough  of  this  rumpus; 
It's  time  it  was  put  to  bed." 

So,  looking  a  little  sheepish, 

But  with  faces  strangely  bright, 

The  audience,  somewhat  lingering, 

Flocked  out  into  the  night. 

And  the  bold-faced  leader  chuckled, 

"  He  wasn't  a  bit  afraid! 

He's  as  game  as  he's  good-looking! 

Boys,  that  was  a  show  that  paid!  " 

Margaret  Vandergrift. 


43 


THE  DRUNKEN  DESPERADO 

I'M  wild  and  woolly  and  full  of  fleas, 
I'm  hard  to  curry  below  the  knees, 
I'm  a  she-wolf  from  Shamon  Creek, 
For  I  was  dropped  from  a  lightning  streak 
And  it's  my  night  to  hollow  —  Whoo-pee ! 

I  stayed  in  Texas  till  they  runned  me  out, 
Then  in  Bull  Frog  they  chased  me  about, 
I  walked  a  little  and  rode  some  more, 
For  I've  shot  up  a  town  before 
And  it's  my  night  to  hollow  —  Whoo-pee! 

Give  me  room  and  turn  me  loose 

I'm  peaceable  without  excuse. 

I  never  killed  for  profit  or  fun, 

But  riled,  I'm  a  regular  son  of  a  gun 

And  it's  my  night  to  hollow  —  Whoo-pee ! 

Good-eye  Jim  will  serve  the  crowd; 

The  rule  goes  here  no  sweetnin'   'lowed. 

And  we'll  drink  now  the  Nixon  kid, 

For  I  rode  to  town  and  lifted  the  lid 

And  it's   my  night  to  hollow  —  Whoo-pee! 

You  can  guess  how  quick  a  man  must  be, 
For  I  killed  eleven  and  wounded  three; 

44 


The  Drunken  Desperado 

And  brothers  and  daddies  aren't  makin'   a   sound 
Though  they  know  where  the  kid  is  found 
And  it's  my  night  to   hollow  —  Whoo-pee  1 

When  I  get  old  and  my  aim  aint  true 

And  it's  three  to  one  and  wounded,  too, 

I  won't  beg  and  claw  the  ground; 

For  I'll  be  dead  before  I'm  found 

When  it's  my  night  to  hollow  —  Whoo-pee! 

Baird  Boyd. 


45 


MARTA  OF  MILRONE 

I  SHOT  him  where  the  Rio  flows; 
I  shot  him  when  the  moon  arose; 
And  where  he  lies  the  vulture  knows 
Along  the  Tinto  River. 

In  schools  of  eastern  culture  pale 
My  cloistered  flesh  began  to  fail; 
They  bore  me  where  the  deserts  quail 
To  winds  from  out  the  sun. 

I  looked  upon  the  land  and  sky, 
Nor  hoped  to  live  nor  feared  to  die; 
And  from  my  hollow  breast  a  sigh 
Fell  o'er  the  burning  waste. 

But  strong  I  grew  and  tall  I  grew; 
I  drank  the  region's  balm  and  dew, — 
It  made  me  lithe  in  limb  and  thew, — 
How  swift  I  rode  and  ran! 

And  oft  it  was  my  joy  to  ride 
Over  the  sand-blown  ocean  wide 
While,  ever  smiling  at  my  side, 
Rode  Marta  of  Milrone. 

46 


Maria  of  Milrone 

A  flood  of  horned  heads  before, 
The  trampled  thunder,  smoke  and  roar, 
Of  full  four  thousand  hoofs,   or  more  — 
A  cloud,  a  sea,  a  storm! 

Oh,  wonderful  the  desert  gleamed, 
As,  man  and  maid,  we  spoke  and  dreamed 
Of  love  in  life,   till  white  wastes  seemed 
Like  plains  of  paradise. 

Her  eyes  with  Love's  great  magic  shone. 
"  Be  mine,  O  Marta  of  Milrone, — 
Your  hand,  your  heart  be  all  my  own!" 
Her  lips,  made  sweet  response. 

"  I  love  you,  yes;  for  you  are  he 
Who  from  the  East  should  come  to  me  — 
And  I  have  waited  long!  "     Oh,  we 
Were  happy  as  the  sun. 

There  came  upon  a  hopeless  quest, 
With  hell  and  hatred  in  his  breast, 
A  stranger,  who  his  love  confessed 
To  Marta  long  in  vain. 

To  me  she  spoke :  "  Chosen  mate, 
His  eyes  are  terrible  with  fate, — 
I  fear  his  love,  I  fear  his  hate, — 
I  fear  some  looming  ill!  " 

47 


Marta  of  Milrone 

Then  to  the  church  we  twain  did  ride, 
I  kissed  her  as  she  rode  beside. 
How  fair  —  how  passing  fair  my  bride 
With  gold  combs  in  her  hair! 

Before  the  Spanish  priest  we   stood 
Of  San   Gregorio's   brotherhood  — 
A  shot  rang  out !  —  and  in  her  blood 
My  dark-eyed  darling  lay. 

0  God!     I  carried  her  beside 

The  Virgin's  altar  where  she  cried, — - 
Smiling  upon  me  ere  she  died, — 
"  Adieu,  my  love,  adieu!" 

1  knelt  before  St.  Mary's  shrine 

And  held  my  dead  one's  hand  in  mine, 
"  Vengeance,"  I  cried,  "  O  Lord,  be  thine, 
But  I  thy  minister !  " 

I  kissed  her  thrice  and  sealed  my  vow, — 
Her  eyes,  her  sea-cold  lips  and  brow, — 
u  Farewell,  my  heart  is  dying  now, 

0  Marta  of  Milrone !  " 

Then  swift  upon  my  steed  I  lept; 
My  streaming  eyes  the  desert  swept; 

1  saw  the  accursed  where  he  crept 
Against  the  blood-red  sun. 

48 


Marta  of  Milrone 

I  galloped  straight  upon  his  track, 
And  never  more  my  eyes  looked  back; 
The  world  was  barred  with  red  and  black; 
My  heart  was  flaming  coal. 

Through  the  delirious  twilight  dim 
And  the  black  night  I  followed  him; 
Hills  did  we  cross  and  rivers  swim, — 
My  fleet  foot  horse  and  I. 

The  morn  burst  red,  a  gory  wound, 
O'er  iron  hills  and  savage  ground; 
And  there  was  never  another  sound 
Save  beat  of  horses'  hoofs. 

Unto  the  murderer's  ear  they  said, 

"  Thou'rt  of  the  dead!     Thou'rt   of  the  dead! " 

Still  on  his  stallion  black  he  sped 

While  death  spurred  on  behind. 

Fiery  dust  from  the  blasted  plain 
Burnt  like  lava  in  every  vein; 
But  I  rode  on  with  steady  rein 
Though  the  fierce  sand-devils  spun. 

Then  to  a  sullen  land  we  came, 

Whose  earth  was  brass,  whose  sky  was  flame; 

I  made  it  balm  with  her  blessed  name 

In  the  land  of  Mexico. 

49 


Maria  of  Milrone 

With  gasp  and  groan  my  poor  horse  fell,  — • 
Last  of  all  things  that  loved  me  well! 
I  turned  my  head  —  a  smoking  shell 
Veiled  me  his  dying  throes. 

But  fast  on  vengeful  foot  was  I ; 
His  steed  fell,  too,  and  was  left  to  die; 
He  fled  where  a  river's  channel  dry 
Made  way  to  the  rolling  stream. 

Red  as  my  rage  the  huge  sun  sank. 
My  foe  bent  low  on  the  river's  bank 
And  deep  of  the  kindly  flood  he  drank 
While  the  giant  stars  broke  forth. 

Then  face  to  face  and  man  to  man 
I  fought  him  where  the  river  ran, 
While  the  trembling  palm  held  up  its  fan 
And  the  emerald  serpents  lay. 

The  mad,  remorseless  bullets  broke 

From  tongues  of  flame  in  the  sulphur  smoke; 

The  air  was  rent  till  the  desert  spoke 

To  the  echoing  hills  afar. 

Hot  from  his  lips  the  curses  burst; 
He   fell!     The  sands  were  slaked  of  thirst; 
A  stream  in  the  stream  ran  dark  at  first, 
And  the  stones  grew  red  as  hearts. 

50 


Marta  of  Milrone 

I  shot  him  where  the  Rio  flows; 
I  shot  him  when  the  moon  arose; 
And  where  he  lies  the  vulture  knows 
Along  the  Tinto  River. 

But  where  she  lies  to  none  is  known 
Save  to  my  poor  heart  and  a  lonely  stone 
On  which  I  sit  and  weep  alone 
Where  the  cactus  stars  are  white. 

Where  I  shall  lie,  no  man  can  say; 
The  flowers  all  are  fallen  away; 
The  desert  is  so  drear  and  grey, 
O  Marta  of  Milrone! 

Herman  Schefauer. 


JACK  DEMPSEY'S  GRAVE 

FAR  out  in  the  wilds  of  Oregon, 
On  a  lonely  mountain  side, 
Where  Columbia's  mighty  waters 
Roll  down  to  the  Ocean's  tide; 
Where  the  giant  fir  and  cedar 
Are  imaged  in  the  wave, 
O'ergrown  with  ferns  and  lichens, 
I  found  poor  Dempsey's  grave. 

I  found  no  marble  monolith, 

No  broken  shaft  nor  stone, 

Recording  sixty  victories 

This  vanquished  victor  won; 

No  rose,  no  shamrock  could  I  find, 

No  mortal  here  to  tell 

Where  sleeps  in  this  forsaken  spot 

The  immortal  Nonpareil. 

A  winding,  wooded  canyon  road 
That  mortals  seldom  tread 
Leads  up  this  lonely  mountain 
To  this  desert  of  the  dead. 
And  the  western  sun  was  sinking 
In  Pacific's  golden  wave; 
And  these  solemn  pines  kept  watching 
Over  poor  Jack  Dempsey's  grave. 
52 


Jack  Dempsey's  Grave 

That  man  of  honor  and  of  iron, 

That  man  of  heart  and  steel, 

That  man  who  far  out-classed  his  class 

And  made  mankind  to  feel 

That  Dempsey's  name  and  Dempsey's  fame 

Should  live  in  serried  stone, 

Is  now  at  rest  far  in  the  West 

In  the  wilds  of  Oregon. 

Forgotten  by  ten  thousand  throats 
That  thundered  his  acclaim  — 
Forgotten  by  his  friends  and  foes 
That   cheered  his   very  name; 
Oblivion  wraps  his  faded  form, 
But  ages  hence  shall  save 
The  memory  of  that  Irish  lad 
That  fills  poor  Dempsey's  grave. 

O  Fame,  why  sleeps  thy  favored  son 

In  wilds,  in  woods,  in  weeds? 

And  shall  he  ever  thus  sleep  on  — 

Interred  his  valiant  deeds? 

'Tis  strange  New  York  should  thus  forget 

Its  "  bravest  of  the  brave," 

And  in  the  wilds  of  Oregon 

Unmarked,  leave  Dempsey's  grave. 

MacMahon. 


53 


THE  CATTLE  ROUND-UP 

ONCE  more  are  we  met  for  a  season  of  pleasure, 
That  shall  smooth  from  our  brows  every  fur- 
row of  care, 

For  the  sake  of  old  times  shall  we  each  tread  a  meas- 
ure 

And  drink  to  the  lees  in  the  eyes  of  the  fair. 
Once  more  let  the  hand-clasp  of  years  past  be  given; 
Let  us  once  more  be  boys  and  forget  we  are  men; 
Let  friendships  the  chances  of  fortune  have  riven 
Be  renewed  and  the  smiling  past  come  back  again. 
The  past,  when  the  prairie  was  big  and  the  cattle 
Were  as  "  scary  "  as  ever  the  antelope  grew  — 
When  to  carry  a  gun,  to  make  our  spurs  rattle, 
And  to  ride  a  blue  streak  was  the  most  that  we  knew; 
The  past  when  we  headed  each  year  for  Dodge  City 
And  punched  up  the  drags  on  the  old   Chisholm 

Trail  ; 
When  the  world  was  all  bright  and  the  girls  were  all 

pretty, 
And  a  feller  could  "  mav'rick  "  and  stay  out  of  jail. 

Then  here's  to  the  eyes  that  like  diamonds  are  gleam- 
ing, 

And  make  the  lamps  blush  that  their  duties  are  o'er; 

And  here's  to  the  lips  where  young  love  lies  a-dream- 
ing; 

54 


The  Cattle  Round-Up 

And  here's  to  the  feet  light  as  air  on  the  floor; 
And  here's  to  the  memories  —  fun's  sweetest  sequel; 
And  here's  to  the  night  we  shall  ever  recall; 
And  here's  to  the  time  —  time  shall  know  not  its 

equal 

When  we  danced  the  day  in  at  the  Cattlemen's  Ball. 

H.  D.  C.  McLaclachlan. 


55 


PART  II 
THE  COWBOY  OFF  GUARD 


/  am  the  plain,  barren  since  time  began. 
Yet  do  I  dream  of  motherhood,  when  man 
One  day  at  last  shall  look  upon  my  charms 
And  give  me  towns}  like  children^  for  my  arms. 


A  COWBOY'S  WORRYING  LOVE 

IUST  to  read  in  the  novel  books  'bout  fellers 
that  got  the  prod 
From  an  arrer  shot  from  his  hidin'  place  by  the 

hand  o'  the  Cupid  god, 
An'    Td    laugh    at    the    cussed    chumps    they    was 

a-wastin'  their  breath  in  sighs 
An'    goin'    around   with    a    locoed   look   a-campin' 

inside  their  eyes. 
IVe  read  o'  the  gals  that  broke  'em  up  a-sailin'  in 

airy  flight 
On  angel  pinions  above  their  beds  as  they  dreampt 

o'  the  same  at  night, 
An'  a  sort  o'  disgusted  frown' d  bunch  the  wrinkles 

acrost  my  brow, 
An'  I'd  call  'em  a  lot  o'  sissy  boys- — but  I'm  seein' 

it  different  now. 

I  got  the  jab  in  my  rough  ol'  heart,  an'  I  got  it 

a-plenty,  too, 
A  center  shot  from  a  pair  o'  eyes  of  the  winninest  sort 

o'  blue, 
An'  I  ride  the  ranges  a-sighin'  sighs,  as  cranky  as  a 

locoed  steer  — 
A  durned  heap  worse  than  the  novel  blokes  that  the 

narrative  gals'd  queer. 
59 


A  Cowboy's  Worrying  Love 

Just  hain't  no  energy  left  no  mo',  go  'round  like  a 

orphant  calf 
A-thinkin'  about  that  sagehen's  eyes  that  give  me  the 

Cupid  gaff, 
An'  I'm  all  skeered  up  when  I  hit  the  thought  some 

other  rider  might 
Cut  in  ahead  on  a  faster  hoss  an'  rope  her  afore  my 

sight. 

There  ain't  a  heifer  that  ever  run  in  the  feminine 
beauty  herd 

Could  switch  a  tail  on  the  whole  durned  range  'long- 
side  o'  that  little  bird; 

A  figger  plump  as  a  prairy  dog's  that's  feedin'  on 
new  spring  grass, 

An'  as  purty  a  face  as  was  ever  flashed  in  front  of 
a  lookin'  glass. 

She's  got  a  smile  that  'd  raise  the  steam  in  the  icyist 
sort  o'  heart, 

A  couple  o'  soul  inspirin'  eyes,  an'  the  nose  that  keeps 
'em  apart 

Is  the  cutest  thing  in  the  sassy  line  that  ever  oc- 
curred to  act 

As  a  ornament  stuck  on  a  purty  face,  an'  that's  a 
dead  open  fact. 

I'm  a-goin'  to  brace  her  by  an'  by  to  see  if  there's 

any  hope, 
To  see  if  she's  liable  to  shy  when  I'm  ready  to  pitch 

the  rope; 

60 


A  Cowboy's  Worrying  Love 

To  see  if  she's  goin'  to  make  a  stand,  or  fly  like  a 

skeered  up  dove 
When  I  make  a  pass  with  the  brandin'  iron  that's 

het  in  the  fire  o'  love. 
I'll  open  the  little  home  corral  an'  give  her  the 

level  hunch 
To  make  a  run  fur  the  open  gate  when  I  cut  her 

out  o'  the  bunch, 
Fur  there  ain't  no  sense  in  a-jammin'  round  with  a 

heart  that's  as  soft  as  dough 
An'  a-throwin'  the  breath  o'  life  away  bunched  up 

into   sighs.     Heigh-ho! 

James  Barton  Adams. 


61 


THE  COWBOY  AND  THE  MAID 

FUNNY  how  it  come  about! 
Me  and  Texas  Tom  was  out 
Takin'  of  a  moonlight  walk, 
Fillin'  in  the  time  with  talk. 
Every  star  up  in  the  sky 
Seemed  to  wink  the  other  eye 
At  each  other,  'sif  they 
Smelt  a  mouse  around  our  way! 

Me  and  Tom  had  never  grew 
Spoony  like  some  couples  do ; 
Never  billed  and  cooed  and  sighed; 
He  was  bashful  like  and  I'd 
Notions  of  my  own  that  it 
Wasn't  policy  to  git 
Too  abundant  till  I'd  got 
Of  my  feller  good  and  caught. 

As  we  walked  along  that  night 
He  got  talkin'  of  the  bright 
Prospects  that  he  had,  and  I 
Somehow  felt,  I  dunno  why, 
That  a-fore  we  cake-walked  back 
To  the  ranch  he'd  make  a  crack 
62 


The  Cowboy  and  the  Maid 

Fer  my  hand,  and  I  was  plum 
Achin'  fer  the  shock  to  come. 

By  and  by  he  says,  "  I've  got 
Fifty  head  o'  cows,  and  not 
One  of  'em  but,  on  the  dead, 
Is  a  crackin'  thoroughbred. 
Got  a  daisy  claim  staked  out, 
And  I'm  thinkin'  it's  about 
Time  fer  me  to  make  a  shy 
At  a  home."     "  O  Tom !  "  says  I. 


"  Bin  a-lookin'  round,"  says  he, 
44  Quite  a  little  while  to  see 
'F  I  could  git  a  purty  face 
Fer  to  ornament  the  place. 
Plenty  of  'em  in  the  land; 
But  the  one  'at  wears  my  brand 
Must  be  sproutin'  wings  to  fly!  " 
44  You  deserve  her,  Tom,"  says  I. 

"  Only  one  so  fur,"  says  he, 
"  Fills  the  bill,  and  mebbe  she 
Might  shy  off  and  bust  my  hope 
If  I  should  pitch  the  poppin'  rope. 
Mebbe  she'd  git  hot  an'   say 
That  it  was  a  silly  play 
Askin'  her  to  make  a  tie." 
44  She  would  be  a  fool,"  says  I. 
63 


The  Cowboy  and  the  Maid 

'Tain't  nobody's  business  what 
Happened  then,  but  I  jist  thought 
I  could  see  the  moon-man  smile 
Cutely  down  upon  us,  while 
Me  and  him  was  walkin'  back, — 
Stoppin'  now  and  then  to  smack 
Lips  rejoicin'  that  at  last 

dread  crisis  had  been  past. 

Anonymous. 


A  COWBOY'S  LOVE  SONG 

OH,  the  last  steer  has  been  branded 
And  the  last  beef  has  been  shipped, 
And  I'm  free  to  roam  the  prairies 
That  the  round-up   crew  has   stripped; 
I'm  free  to  think  of  Susie, — 
Fairer  than  the  stars  above, — 
She's  the  waitress  at  the  station 
And  she  is  my  turtle  dove. 

Biscuit-shootin'  Susie, — 
She's  got  us  roped  and  tied; 
Sober  men  or  woozy 
Look  on  her  with  pride. 
Susie's  strong  and  able, 
And  not  a  one  gits  rash 
When  she  waits  on  the  table 
And  superintends  the  hash. 

Oh,  I  sometimes  think  I'm  locoed 
An'   jes  fit   fer  herdin'   sheep, 
'Cause  I  only  think  of  Susie 
When  I'm  wakin'  or  I'm  sleep. 
I'm  wearin'  Cupid's  hobbles, 
An'  I'm  tied  to  Love's  stake-pin, 
And  when  my  heart  was  branded 
The  irons  sunk  deep  in. 
65 


A  Cowboy's  Love  Song 
Chorus :  — 

I  take  my  saddle,  Sundays, — 
The  one  with  inlaid  flaps, — 
And  don  my  new  sombrero 
And  my  white  angora  chaps; 
Then  I  take  a  bronc  for  Susie 
And  she  leaves  her  pots  and  pans 
And  we  figure  out  our  future 
And  talk  o'er  our  homestead  plans. 

Chorus :  — 

Anonymous. 


66 


A  BORDER  AFFAIR 

SPANISH  is  the  Win'  tongue, 
Soft  as  music,  light  as  spray; 
'Twas  a  girl  I  learnt  it  from 
Livin'  down  Sonora  way. 
I  don't  look  much  like  a  lover, 
Yet  I  say  her  love-words  over 
Often,  when  I'm  all  alone  — 
"  Mi  amor,  mi  corazon" 

Nights  when  she  knew  where  I'd  ride 

She  would  listen  for  my  spurs, 
Throw  the  big  door  open  wide, 

Raise  them  laughin'  eyes  of  hers, 
And  my  heart  would  nigh  stop  beatin' 
When  I'd  hear  her  tender  greetin' 

Whispered  soft  for  me  alone  — 

"  Mi  amor!  mi  corazon!" 

Moonlight  in  the  patio, 

Old  Senora  noddin'  near, 
Me  and  Juana  talkin'  low 

So  the  "  madre  "  couldn't  hear  — 
How  those  hours  would  go  a-flyin', 
And  too  soon  I'd  hear  her  sighin', 

In  her  little  sorry-tone  — 

" Adios,  mi  corazon" 
67 


A  Border  A  fair 

But  one  time  I  had  to  fly 

For  a  foolish  gamblin'  fight, 
And  we  said  a  swift  good-bye 

On  that  black,  unlucky  night. 
When  I'd  loosed  her  arms  from  clingin', 
With  her  words  the  hoofs  kept  ringin', 

As  I  galloped  north  alone  — 

"Adios,  mi  corazon." 

Never  seen  her  since  that  night; 

I  kaint  cross  the  Line,  you  know. 
She  was  Mex.  and  I  was  white; 

Like  as  not  it's  better  so. 
Yet  I've  always  sort  of  missed  her 
Since  that  last,  wild  night  I  kissed  her, 

Left  her  he^rt  and  lost  my  own  — 

"  Adios,  mi  corazon." 

Charles  B.  Clark,  Jr. 


68 


SNAGTOOTH  SAL 

I  WAS  young  and  happy  and  my  heart  was  light 
and  gay, 
Singin',   always  singin'  through  the  sunny  summer 

day; 

Happy  as  a  lizard  in  the  wavin'  chaparral, 
Walkin'  down  through  Laramie  with  Snagtooth  Sal. 

Sal,  Sal, 

My  heart  is  broke  today  — 

Broke  in  two  forever  when  they  laid  you  in  the 
clay; 

I  would  give  creation  to  be  walkin'  with  my 
gal  — 

Walkin'  down  through  Laramie  with  Snag- 
tooth  Sal. 

Bury  me  tomorrow  where  the  lily  blossoms  spring 
Underneath  the  willows  where  the  little  robins  sing. 
You  will  yearn  to  see  me  —  but  ah,  nevermore  you 

shall  — 
Walkin'  down  through  Laramie  with  Snagtooth  Sal. 

Refrain:  — 

Plant  a  little  stone  above  the  little  mound  of  sod; 
Write :     "  Here  lies   a  lovin'   an'   a  busted  heart, 
begod! 

69 


Snagtooth  Sal 

Nevermore  you'll  see  him  walkin'  proudly  with  his 

gal  — 
Walkin'  down  through  Laramie  with  Snagtooth  Sal." 

Sal,  Sal, 

My  heart  is  broke  today  — 

Broke  in  two  forever  when  they  laid  you  in  the 
clay; 

I  would  give  creation  to  be  walkin'  with  my 
gal  — 

Walkin'    down   through   Laramie   with   Snag- 
tooth Sal. 

Lowell  O.  Reese, 
In  the  Saturday  Evening  Post. 


70 


LOVE  LYRICS  OF  A  COWBOY 

IT  hain't  no  use  fer  me  to  say 
There's  others  with  a  style  an'  way 
That  beats  hers  to  a  fare-you-well, 
Fer,  on  the  square,   I'm  here  to  tell 
I  jes  can't  even  start  to  see 
But  what  she's  perfect  as  kin  be. 
Fer  any  fault  I  finds  excuse  — 
I'll  tell  you,  pard,  it  hain't  no  use 
Fer  me  to  try  to  raise  a  hand, 
When  on  my  heart  she's  run  her  brand. 

The  bunk-house  ain't  the  same  to  me; 

The  bunch  jes  makes  me  weary  —  Gee! 

I  never  knew  they  was  so  coarse  — 

I  warps  my  face  to  try  to  force 

A  smile  at  each  old  gag  they  spring; 

Fer  I'd  heap  ruther  hear  her  sing 

"  Sweet  Adeline,"   or  softly  play 

The  "  Dream  o'  Heaven  "  that-a-way. 

Besides  this  place,  most  anywhere 

I'd  ruther  be  —  so  she  was  there. 

She  called  me  u  dear,"  an'  do  you  know, 
My  heart  jes  skipped  a  beat,  an'  tho' 
I'm  hard  to  feaze,  I'm  free  to  yip 


Love  Lyrics  of  a  Cowboy 

My  reason  nearly  lost  its  grip. 

She  called  me   "  dear,"  jes  sweet  an'  slow, 

An'  lookin'  down  an'  speakin'  low; 

An'  if  I  had  ten  lives  to  live, 

With  everything  the  world  could  give, 

I'd  shake  'em  all  without  one  fear 

If  'fore  I'd  go  she'd  call  me  "  dear." 

You  wonders  why  I  slicks  up  so 

On  Sundays,  when  I  gits  to  go 

To  see  her  —  well,  I'm  free  to  say 

She's  like  religion  that-a-way. 

Jes  sort  o'  like  some  holy  thing, 

As  clean  as  young  grass  in  the  spring; 

An'  so  before  I  rides  to  her 

I  looks  my  best  from  hat  to  spur  — 

But  even  then  I  hain't  no  right 

To  think  I  look  good  in  her  sight. 

If  she  should  pass  me  up  —  say,  boy, 
You  jes  put  hobbles  on  your  joy; 
First  thing  you  know,  you  gits  so  gay 
Your  luck  stampedes  and  gits  away. 
An'  don't  you  even  start  a  guess 
That  you've  a  cinch  on  happiness ; 
Per  few  e'er  reach  the  Promised  Land 
If  they  starts  headed  by  a  band. 
Ride  slow  an'  quiet,  humble,  too, 
Or  Fate  will  slap  its  brand  on  you. 
72 


Love  Lyrics  of  a  Cowboy 

The  old  range  sleeps,  there  hain't  a  stir. 

Less  it's  a  night-hawk's  sudden  whir, 

Or  cottonwoods  a-whisperin'  while 

The  red  moon  smiles  a  lovin'  smile. 

An'  there  I  set  an'  hold  her  hand 

So  glad  I  jes  can't  understand 

The  reason  of  it  all,  or  see 

Why  all  the  world  looks  good  to  me ; 

Or  why  I  sees  in  it  heap  more 

Of  beauty  than  I  seen  before. 

Fool  talk,  perhaps,  but  it  jes  seems 
We're  ridin'  through  a  range  o'  dreams; 
Where  medder  larks  the  year  round  sing, 
An'  it's  jes  one  eternal  spring. 
An'  time  —  why  time  is  gone  —  by  gee  ! 
There's  no  such  thing  as  time  to  me 
Until  she  says,  "  Here,  boy,  you  know 
You  simply  jes  have  got  to  go; 
It's  nearly  twelve."     I  rides  away, 
41  Dog-gone  a  clock!  "  is  what  I  say. 

R.  V.  Carr. 


73 


THE  BULL  FIGHT 

THE  couriers  from  Chihuahua  go 
To  distant  Cusi  and  Santavo, 
Announce  the  feast  of  all  the  year  the  crown  — 
Se  corren  los  torosf 
And  Juan  brings  his  Pepita  into  town. 

The  rancherias  on  the  mountain  side, 

The  haciendas  of  the  Llano  wide, 

Are  quickened  by  the  matador's  renown. 

Se  corren  los  toros! 

And  Juan  brings  his  Pepita  into  town. 

The  women  that  on  ambling  burros  ride, 

The  men  that  trudge  behind  or  close  beside 

Make  groups  of  dazzling  red  and  white  and  brown. 

Se  corren  los  toros! 

And  Juan  brings  his  Pepita  into  town. 

Or  else  the  lumbering  carts  are  brought  in  play, 
That  jolt  and  scream  and  groan  along  the  way, 
But  to  their  happy  tenants  cause  no  frown. 
Se  corren  los  toros! 
And  Juan  brings  his  Pepita  into  town. 

The  Plaza  De  Los  Toros  offers  seats, 
Some  deep  in  shade,  on  some  the  fierce  sun  beats ; 

74 


The  Bull  Fight 

These  for  the  don,  those  for  the  rustic  clown. 

Se  corren  los  toros! 

And  Juan  brings  his  Pepita  into  town. 

Pepita  sits,  so  young  and  sweet  and  fresh, 
The  sun  shines  on  her  hair's  dusky  mesh. 
Her  day  of  days,  how  soon  it  will  be  flown ! 
Se  corren  los  toros! 
And  Juan's  brought  his  Pepita  into  town. 

The  bull  is  harried  till  the  governor's  word 
Bids  the  Diestro  give  the  agile  sword; 
Then  shower  the  bravos  and  the  roses  down ! 
'Sta  inner  to  el  toro! 

And  Juan  takes  his  Pepita  back  from  the  town. 

L.  Worthington  Green. 


f\ 


75 


THE  COWBOY'S  VALENTINE 

SAY,  Moll,  now  don't  you  'How  to  quit 
A-playin'  maverick? 
Sech  stock  should  be  corralled  a  bit 
An'  hev  a  mark  't  '11  stick. 

Old  Val's  a-roundin'-up  today 
Upon  the  Sweetheart  Range, 
'N  me  a-helpin',  so  to  say, 
Though  this  yere  herd  is  strange 

To  me  — 'n  yit,  ef  I  c'd  rope 

Jes  one  to  wear  my  brand 

I'd  strike  f'r  Home  Ranch  on  a  lope, 

The  happiest  in  the  land. 

Yo'  savvy  who  I'm  runnin'  so, 

Yo'  savvy  who  I  be; 

Now,  can't  yo'  take  that  brand  —  yo'  know, — 

The  *  M-I-N-E. 

C.  F.  Lummis. 


76 


A  COWBOY'S  HOPELESS  LOVE 

I'VE  heard  that  story  ofttimes  about  that  little 
chap 

A-cryin'  for  the  shiney  moon  to  fall  into  his  lap, 
An'  jes  a-raisin'  merry  hell  because  he  couldn't  git 
The  same  to  swing  down  low  so's  he  could  nab  a-holt 

of  it, 

An'  I'm  a-feelin'  that-a-way,  locoed  I  reckon,  wuss 
Than  that  same  kid,  though  maybe  not  a-makin'  sich 

a  fuss, — 
A-goin'   round  with   achin'   eyes   a-hankerin'    fer   a 

peach 
That's  hangin'  on  the  beauty  tree,  too  high  fer  me 

to  reach. 

I'm  jes  a  rider  of  the  range,  plumb  rough  an'  on- 
refined, 

An'  wild  an'  keerless  in  my  ways,  like  others  of  my 
kind; 

A  reckless  cuss  in  leather  chaps,  an'  tanned  an'  black- 
ened so 

You'd  think  I  wuz  a  Greaser  from  the  plains  of 
Mexico. 

I  never  learnt  to  say  a  prayer,  an'  guess  my  style  o' 
talk, 

If  fired  off  in  a  Sunday  School  would  give  'em  all 
a  shock; 

77 


A  Cowboy's  Hopeless  Love 

An'  yet  I  got  a-mopin'  round  as  crazy  as  a  loon 
An'  actin'  like  the  story  kid  that  bellered  fer  the 
moon. 

I  wish  to  God  she'd  never  come  with  them  bright 

laughin'  eyes, — 
Had  never  flashed  that  smile  that  seems  a  sunburst 

from  the  skies, — 
Had  stayed  there  in  her  city  home  instead  o'  comin' 

here 
To  visit  at  the  ranch  an'  knock  my  heart  plumb  out 

o'  gear. 
I  wish  to  God  she'd  talk  to  me  in  a  way  to  fit  the 

case, — 
In  words  t'd  have  a  tendency  to  hold  me  in  my 

place, — 

Instead  o'  bein'  sociable  an'  actin'  like  she  thought 
Us  cowboys  good  as  city  gents  in  clothes  that's  tailor 

bought. 

If  I  would  hint  to  her  o'  love,  she'd  hit  that  love  a 

jar 
An'  laugh  at  sich  a  tough  as  me  a-tryin'  to  rope  a 

star; 
She'd  give  them  fluffy  skirts  a  flirt,  an'  skate  out  o' 

my  sight, 
An'  leave  me  paralyzed, —  an'  it'd  serve  me  cussed 

right. 
I  wish  she'd  pack  her  pile  o'  trunks  an'  hit  the  city 

track, 

78 


A  Cowboy's  Hopeless  Love 

An'  maybe  I'd  recover  from  this  violent  attack; 
An'  in  the  future  know  enough  to  watch  my  feedin' 

ground 
An'  shun  the  loco  weed  o'  love  when  there's  an  angel 

round. 

James  Barton  Adams. 


79 


THE  CHASE 

TERE'S  a  moccasin  track  in  the  drifts, 
A  A  It's  no  more  than  the  length  of  my  hand; 
An'  her  instep, —  just  see  how  it  lifts ! 
If  that  ain't  the  best  in  the  land! 
For  the  maid  ran  as  free  as  the  wind 
And  her  foot  was  as  light  as  the  snow. 
Why,  as  sure  as  I  follow,  I'll  find 
Me  a  kiss  where  her  red  blushes  grow. 

Here's  two  small  little  feet  and  a  skirt; 

Here's  a  soft  little  heart  all  aglow. 

See  me  trail  down  the  dear  little  flirt 

By  the  sign  that  she  left  in  the  snow ! 

Did  she  run?     'Twas  a  sign  to  make  haste. 

An'  why  bless  her !     I'm  sure  she  won't  mind. 

If  she's  got  any  kisses  to  waste, 

Why,  she  knew  that  a  man  was  behind. 

Did  she  run  'cause  she's  only  afraid? 

No !     For  sure  'twas  to  set  me  the  pace ! 

An'  I'll  follow  in  love  with  a  maid 

When  I  ain't  had  a  sight  of  her  face. 

There  she  is !     An'  I  knew  she  was  near. 

Will  she  pay  me  a  kiss  to  be  free  ? 

Will  she  hate?     Will  she  love?     Will  she  fear? 

Why,  the  darling !     She's  waiting  to  see ! 

Pocock  in  "  Curley." 
80 


RIDING  SONG 

ET  us  ride  together, — 
Blowing  mane  and  hair, 
Careless  of  the  weather, 
Miles  ahead  of  care, 
Ring  of  hoof  and  snaffle, 
Swing  of  waist  and  hip, 
Trotting  down  the  twisted  road 
With  the  world  let  slip. 

Let  us  laugh  together, — 
Merry  as  of  old 
To  the  creak  of  leather 
And  the  morning  cold. 
Break  into  a  canter; 
Shout  to  bank  and  tree; 
Rocking  down  the  waking  trail, 
Steady  hand  and  knee. 

.    0 

Take  the  life  of  cities, — 
Here's  the  life  for  me. 
'Twere  a  thousand  pities 
Not  to  gallop  free. 
So  we'll  ride  together, 
Comrade,  you  and  I, 
Careless  of  the  weather, 
Letting  care  go  by. 

Anonymous. 
81 


OUR  LITTLE  COWGIRL 

THAR  she  goes  a-lopin',  stranger, 
Khaki-gowned,  with  flyin'  hair, 
Talk  about  your  classy  ridin', — 
Wai,  you're  gettin'  it  right  thar. 
Jest  a  kid,  but  lemme  tell  you 
When  she  warms  a  saddle  seat 
On  that  outlaw  bronc  a-straddle 
She  is  one  that  can't  be  beat! 

Every  buckaroo  that  sees  her 
Tearin'  cross  the  range  astride 
Has  some  mighty  jealous  feelin's 
Wishin'  he  knowed  how  to  ride. 
Why,  she'll  take  a  deep  barranca 
Six-foot  wide  and  never  peep ; 
That  'ere  cayuse  she's  a-forkin' 
Sure  's  somethin'  on  the  leap. 

Ride?     Why,  she  can  cut  a  critter 
From  the  herd  as  neat  as  pie, 
Read  a  brand  out  on  the  ranges 
Just  as  well  as  you  or  I. 
Ain't  much  yet  with  the  riata, 
But  you  give  her  a  few  years 
And  no  puncher  with  the  outfit 
Will  beat  her  a-ropin'  steers. 
82 


Our  Little  Cowgirl 

Proud  o'  her?     Say,  lemme  tell  you, 
She's  the  queen  of  all  the  range; 
Got  a  grip  upon  our  heart-strings 
Mighty  strong,  but  that  ain't  strange ; 
'Cause  she  loves  the  lowin'  cattle, 
Loves  the  hills  and  open  air, 
Dusty  trails  on  blossomed  canons 
God  has  strung  around  out  here. 

Hoof-beats  poundin'  down  the  mesa, 
Chicken-time  in  lively  tune, 
Jest  below  the  trail  to  Keeber's, — 
Wait,  you'll  see  her  pretty  soon. 
You  kin  bet  I  know  that  ridin', — 
Now  she's  toppin'  yonder  swell. 
Thar  she  is;  that's  her  a-smilin' 
At  the  bars  of  the  corral. 

Anonymous. 


I  WANT  MY  TIME 

I'M  night  guard  all  alone  tonight, 
Dead  homesick,  lonely,  tired  and  blue; 
And  none  but  you  can  make  it  right; 
My  heart  is  hungry,  Girl,  for  you. 

Fve  longed  all  night  to  hug  you,  Dear; 
To  speak  my  love  Fm  at  a  loss. 
But  just  as  soon  as  daylight's  here 
Fm  goin'  straight  to  see  the  boss. 

"  How  long's  the  round-up  goin'  to  run? 

Another  week,  or  maybe  three? 

Give  me  my  time,  then,  I  am  done. 

No,  Fm  not  sick.     Three  weeks?     Oh  gee! ' 

I  know,  though,  when  Fve  had  enough. 
I  will  not  work, —  darned  if  I  will. 
Fm  goin'  to  quit,  and  that's  no  bluff. 
Say,  gimme  some  tobacco,  Bill. 

Anonymous. 


WHO'S  THAT  CALLING  SO  SWEET? 

THE  herds  are  gathered  in  from  plain  and  hill, 
Who's  that  a-calling? 
The  boys  are  sleeping  and  the  boys  are  still, 

Who's  that  a-calling? 
'Twas  the  wind  a-sighing  in  the  prairie  grass, 

Who's  that  a-calling? 
Or  wild  birds  singing  overhead  as  they  pass. 

Who's  that  a-calling? 

Making  heart  and  pulse  to  beat. 

No,  no,  it  wasn't  earthly  sound  I  heard, 

Who's  that  a-calling? 
It  was  no  sigh  of  breeze  or  song  of  bird, 

Who's  that  a-calling? 
For  the  tone  I  heard  was  softer  far  than  these, 

Who's  that  a-calling? 

'Twas  loved  ones'  voices  from  far  off  across  the  seas 

Deveen. 


SONG  OF  THE  CATTLE  TRAIL 

THE  dust  hangs  thick  upon  the  trail 
And  the  horns  and  the  hoofs  are  clashing, 
While  off  at  the  side  through  the  chaparral 
The  men  and  the  strays  go  crashing; 
But  in  right  good  cheer  the  cowboy  sings, 
For  the  work  of  the  fall  is  ending, 
And  then  it's  ride  for  the  old  home  ranch 
Where  a  maid  love's  light  is  tending. 

Then  it's  crack !  crack !  crack ! 

On  the  beef  steer's  back, 

And  it's  run,  you  slow-foot  devil; 

For  I'm  soon  to  turn  back  where  through  the  black 

Love's  lamp  gleams  along  the  level. 

He's  trailed  them  far  o'er  the  trackless  range, 

Has  this  knight  of  the  saddle  leather; 

He  has  risked  his  life  in  the  mad  stampede, 

And  has  breasted  all  kinds  of  weather. 

But  now  is  the  end  of  the  trail  in  sight, 

And  the  hours  on  wings  are  sliding; 

For  it's  back  to  the  home  and  the  only  girl 

When  the  foreman  O  K's  the  option. 

Then  it's  quirt !  quirt !  quirt ! 
And  it's  run  or  git  hurt, 

86 


Song  of  the  Cattle  Trail 

You  hang-back,  bawling  critter. 

For  a  man  who's  in  love  with  a  turtle  dove 

Ain't  got  no  time  to  fritter. 

Anonymous. 


A  COWBOY'S  SON 

WHAR  y'u  from,  little  stranger,  little  boy? 
Y'u  was  ridin'  a  cloud  on  that  star-strewn 

plain, 

But  y'u  fell  from  the  skies  like  a  drop  of  rain 
To  this  world  of  sorrow  and  long,  long  pain. 
Will  y'u  care  fo'  yo'  mothah,  little  boy? 

When  y'u  grows,  little  varmint,  little  boy, 

Y'u'll  be  ridin'  a  hoss  by  yo'  fathah's  side 

With  yo'  gun  and  yo'  spurs  and  yo'  howstrong  pride. 

Will  y'u  think  of  yo'  home  when  the  world  rolls 

wide? 
Will  y'u  wish  for  yo'  mothah,  little  boy? 

When  y'u  love  in  yo'  manhood,  little  boy, — 
When  y'u  dream  of  a  girl  who  is  angel  fair, — 
When  the  stars  are  her  eyes  and  the  wind  is  her 

hair, — 

When  the  sun  is  her  smile  and  yo'  heaven's  there, — 
Will  y'u  care  for  yo'  mothah,  little  boy? 

Pocock  in  "  Curley." 


88 


A  COWBOY  SONG 

I  COULD  not  be  so  well  content, 
So  sure  of  thee, 
Senorita, 

But  well  I  know  you  must  relent 
And  come  to  me, 
Lolita ! 

The  Caballeros  throng  to  see 

Thy  laughing  face, 

Senorita, 

Lolita. 

But  well  I  know  thy  heart's  for  me, 

Thy  charm,  thy  grace, 

Lolita ! 

I  ride  the  range  for  thy  dear  sake, 

To  earn  thee  gold, 

Senorita, 

Lolita ; 

And  steal  the  gringo's  cows  to  make 

A  ranch  to  hold 

Lolita ! 

Pocock  in  "  Curley." 


89 


A  NEVADA  COWPUNCHER  TO  HIS 
BELOVED 

T  ONESOME  ?     Well,  I  guess  so ! 
I  ^  This  place  is  mighty  blue ; 
The  silence  of  the  empty  rooms 
Jes'  palpitates  with  —  you. 

The  day  has  lost  its  beauty, 
The  sun's  a-shinin'  pale; 
I'll  round  up  my  belonging 
An'  I  guess  I'll  hit  the  trail. 

Out  there  in  the  sage-brush 
A-harkin'  to  the  "  Coo-oo  " 
Of  the  wild  dove  in  his  matin' 
I  can  think  alone  of  you. 

Perhaps  a  gaunt  coyote 

Will  go  a-lopin'  by 

An'  linger  on  the  mountain  ridge 

An'  cock  his  wary  eye. 

An'  when  the  evenin'  settles, 

A-waitin'  for  the  dawn 

Perhaps  I'll  hear  the  ground  owl : 

"  She's  gone  —  she's  gone  —  she's  gone !  " 

Anonymous. 
90 


THE  COWBOY  TO  HIS  FRIEND  IN  NEED 

YOU'RE  very  well  polished,  I'm  free  to  confess, 
Well  balanced,  well  rounded,  a  power  for  right; 
But  cool  and  collected, —  no  steel  could  be  less  ; 
You're  primed  for  continual  fight. 

Your  voice  is  a  bellicose  bark  of  ill-will, 
On  hatred  and  choler  you  seem  to  have  fed; 
But  when  I  control  you,  your  temper  is  nil; 
In  fact,  you're  most  easily  led. 

Though  lead  is  your  diet  and  fight  is  your  fun, 
I  simply  can't  give  you  the  jolt; 
For  I  love  you,  you  blessed  old  son-of-a-gun, — 
You  forty-five  caliber  Colt ! 

Burke  Jenkins. 


WHEN  BOB  GOT  THROWED 

THAT  time  when  Bob  got  throwed 
I  thought  I  sure  would  bust. 
I  like  to  died  a-laffin' 
To  see  him  chewin'  dust. 

He  crawled  on  that  Andy  bronc 
And  hit  him  with  a  quirt. 
The  next  thing  that  he  knew 
He  was  wallowin'  in  the  dirt. 

Yes,  it  might  a -killed  him, 
I  heard  the  old  ground  pop ; 
But  to  see  if  he  was  injured 
You  bet  I  didn't  stop. 

I  just  rolled  on  the  ground 
And  began  to  kick  and  yell; 
It  like  to  tickled  me  to  death 
To  see  how  hard  he  fell. 

'Twarn't  more  than  a  week  ago 
That  I  myself  got  throwed, 
(But  'twas  from  a  meaner  horse 
Than  old  Bob  ever  rode). 
92 


When  Bob  Got  Throwed 

D'you  reckon  Bob  looked  sad  and  said, 
"  I  hope  that  you  ain't  hurt!  " 
Naw!     He  just  laffed  and  laffed  and  laffed 
To  see  me  chewin'  dirt. 

IVe  been  prayin'  ever  since 
For  his  horse  to  turn  his  pack; 
And  when  he  done  it,  I'd  a  laffed 
If  it  had  broke  his  back. 

So  I  was  still  a^howlin' 

When  Bob,  he  got  up  lame  ; 

He  seen  his  horse  had  run  clean  off 

And  so  for  me  he  came. 

He  first  chucked  sand  into  my  eyes, 
With  a  rock  he  rubbed  my  head, 
Then  he  twisted  both  my  arms, — 
"  Now  go  fetch  that  horse,"  he  said. 

So  I  went  and  fetched  him  back, 
But  I  was  feelin'  good  all  day; 
For  I  sure  enough  do  love  to  see 
A  feller  get  throwed  that  way. 

Ray. 


93 


COWBOY  VERSUS  BRONCHO 

HAVEN'T  got  no  special  likin'  fur  the  toney 
sorts  o'  play, 

Chasin'  foxes  or  that  hossback  polo  game, 
Jumpin'  critters  over  hurdles  —  sort  o'  things  that 

any  jay 

Could  accomplish  an'  regard  as  rather  tame. 
None  o'  them  is  worth  a  mention,  to  my  thinkin' 

p'int  o'  view, 

Which  the  same  I  hold  correct  without  a  doubt, 
As  a-toppin'  of  a  broncho  that  has  got  it  in  fur  you 
An'  concludes  that's  just  the  time  to  have  it  out. 

Don't  no  sooner  hit  the  saddle  than  the  exercises 

start, 

An'  they're  lackin'  in  perliminary  fuss; 
You  kin  hear  his  j'ints  a-crackin'  like  he's  breakin' 

'em  apart, 

An'  the  hide  jes'  seems  a-rippin'  off  the  cuss, 
An'  you  sometimes  git  a  joltin'  that  makes  every- 
thing turn  blue, 

.     An'  you  want  to  strictly  mind  what  you're  about, 
When  you're  fightin'  with  a  broncho  that  has  got  it 

in  fur  you 

An'  imagines  that's  the  time  to  have  it  out. 
94 


Cowboy  Versus  Broncho 

Bows  his  back  when  he  is  risin',  sticks  his  nose  be- 
tween his  knees, 

An'  he  shakes  hisself  while  a-hangin'  in  the  air; 
Then  he  hits  the  earth  so  solid  that  it  somewhat  dis- 
agrees 

With  the  usual  peace  an'  quiet  of  your  hair. 
You    imagine    that   your    innards   are    a-gittin'    all 

askew, 

An'  your  spine  don't  feel  so  cussed  firm  an'  stout, 
When  you're  up  agin  a  broncho  that  has  got  it  in 

fur  you 
Doin'  of  his  level  best  to  have  it  out. 

He  will  rise  to  the  occasion  with  a  lightnin'  jump,  an' 
then 

When  he  hits  the  face  o'  these  United  States 
Doesn't  linger  half  a  second  till  he's  in  the  air  agin  — 

Occupies  the  earth  an'  then  evacuates. 
Isn't  any  sense  o'  comfort  like  a-settin'  in  a  pew 

Listenin'  to  hear  a  sleepy  parson  spout 
When  you're  up  on  top  a  broncho  that  has  got  it  in 
fur  you 

An'  is  desputly  a-tryin'  to  have  it  out. 

Always  feel  a  touch  o'  pity  when  he  has  to  give 

it  up 

After  makin'  sich  a  well  intentioned  buck 
An'  is  standin'  broken  hearted  an'  as  gentle  as  a  pup 
A  reflectin'  on  the  rottenness  o'  luck. 
95 


Cowboy  Versus  Broncho 

Puts  your  sympathetic  feelin's,  as  you  might  say,  in 

a  stew, 

Though  you're  lame  as  if  a-sufferin'  from  the  gout, 
When  you're  lightin'  off  a  broncho  that  has  had  it  in 

fur  you 
An'  mistook  the  proper  time  to  have  it  out. 

James  Barton  Adams. 


96 


WHEN  YOU'RE  THROWED 

IF  a  feller's  been  a-straddle 
Since  he's  big  enough  to  ride, 
And  has  had  to  sling  his  saddle 
On  most  any  colored  hide, — 
Though  it's  nothin'  they  take  pride  in, 
Still  most  fellers  I  have  knowed, 
If  they  ever  done  much  ridin', 
Has  at  different  times  got  throwed. 

All  the  boys  start  out  together 
For  the  round-up  some  fine  day 
When  you're  due  to  throw  your  leather 
On  a  little  wall-eyed  bay, 
An'  he  swells  to  beat  the  nation 
When  you're  cinchin'  up  the  slack, 
An'  he  keeps  an  elevation 
In  your  saddle  at  the  back. 

He  stands  still  with  feet  a-sprawlin', 
An'  his  eye  shows  lots  of  white, 
An'  he  kinks  his  spinal  column, 
An'  his  hide  is  puckered  tight, 
He  starts  risin'  an'  a-jumpin', 
An'  he  strikes  when  you  get  near, 
97 


When  You're  Throwed 

An'  you  cuss  him  an'  you  thump  him 
Till  you  get  him  by  the  ear, — 

Then  your  right  hand  grabs  the  saddle 
An'  you  ketch  your  stirrup,  too, 
An'  you  try  to  light  a-straddle 
Like  a  woolly  buckaroo ; 
But  he  drops  his  head  an'  switches, 
Then  he  makes  a  backward  jump, 
Out  of  reach  your  stirrup  twitches 
But  your  right  spur  grabs  his  hump. 

An'  "  Stay  with  him!  "  shouts  some  feller; 
Though  you  know  it's  hope  forlorn, 
Yet  you'll  show  that  you  ain't  yeller 
An'  you  choke  the  saddle  horn. 
Then  you  feel  one  rein  a-droppin' 
An'  you  know  he's  got  his  head; 
An'  your  shirt  tail's  out  an'  floppin' ; 
An'  the  saddle  pulls  like  lead. 

Then  the  boys  all  yell  together 

Fit  to  make  a  feller  sick: 

"  Hey,  you  short  horn,  drop  the  leather! 

Fan  his  fat  an'  ride  him  slick!  " 

Seems  you're  up-side-down  an'  flyin'  ; 

Then  your  spurs  begin  to  slip. 

There's  no  further  use  in  tryin', 

For  the  horn  flies  from  your  grip, 

98 


When  You're   Throwed 

An'  you  feel  a  vague  sensation 
As  upon  the  ground  you  roll, 
Like  a  violent  separation 
'Twixt  your  body  an'  your  soul. 
Then  you  roll  agin  a  hummock 
Where  you  lay  an'  gasp  for  breath, 
An'  there's  somethin'  grips  your  stomach 
Like  the  finger-grips  o'  death. 

They  all  offers  you  prescriptions 
For  the  grip  an'  for  the  croup, 
An'  they  give  you  plain  descriptions 
How  you  looped  the  spiral  loop; 
They  all  swear  you  beat  a  circus 
Or  a  hoochy-koochy  dance, 
Moppin'  up  the  canon's  surface 
With  the  bosom  of  your  pants. 

Then  you'll  get  up  on  your  trotters, 
But  you  have  a  job  to  stand; 
For  the  landscape  round  you  totters 
An'  your  collar's  full  o'  sand. 
Lots  of  fellers  give  prescriptions 
How  a  broncho  should  be  rode, 
But  there's  few  that  gives  descriptions 
Of  the  times  when  they  got  throwed. 

Anonymous. 


99 


PARDNERS 

YOU  bad-eyed,  tough-mouthed  son-of-a-gun, 
Ye're  a  hard  little  beast  to  break, 
But  ye're  good  for  the  fiercest  kind  of  a  run 
An'  ye're  quick  as  a  rattlesnake. 
Ye  jolted  me  good  when  we  first  met 
In  the  dust  of  that  bare  corral, 
An'  neither  one  of  us  will  forget 
The  fight  we  fit,  old  pal. 

But  now  —  well,  say,  old  hoss,  if  John 

D.  Rockefeller  shud  come 

With  all  the  riches  his  paws  are  on 

And  want  to  buy  you,  you  bum, 

Fd  laugh  in  his  face  an'  pat  your  neck 

An'  say  to  him  loud  an'  strong: 

"  I  wouldn't  sell  you  this  derned  old  wreck 

For  all  your  wealth  —  so  long!  " 

For  we  have  slept  on  the  barren  plains 
An'  cuddled  against  the  cold; 
We've  been  through  tempests  of  drivin'  rains 
When  the  heaviest  thunder  rolled; 
We've  raced  from  fire  on  the  lone  prairee 
An'  run  from  the  mad  stampede; 
An'  there  ain't  no  money  could  buy  from  me 
A  pard  of  your  style  an'  breed. 
100 


Pardners,        ,  , 

So  I  reckon  we'll  stick  together,  pard, 

Till  one  of  us  cashes  in; 

Ye're  wirey  an'  tough  an'  mighty  hard, 

An'  homlier,  too,  than  sin. 

But  yer  head's  all  there  an'  yer  heart's  all  right, 

An'  you've  been  a  good  pardner,  too, 

An'  if  ye've  a  soul  it's  clean  an'  white, 

You  ugly  oF  scoundrel,  you ! 

Berton  Braley. 


101 


THE  BRONC  THAT  WOULDN'T  BUST 

I'VE  busted  bronchos  off  and  on 
Since  first  I  struck  their  trail, 
And  you  bet  I  savvy  bronchos 
From  nostrils  down  to  tail; 
But  I  struck  one  on  Powder  River, 
And  say,  hands,  he  was  the  first 
And  only  living  broncho 
That  your  servant  couldn't  burst. 

He  was  a  no-count  buckskin, 

Wasn't  worth  two-bits  to  keep, 

Had  a  black  stripe  down  his  backbone, 

And  was  woolly  like  a  sheep. 

That  hoss  wasn't  built  to  tread  the  earth; 

He  took  natural  to  the  air; 

And  every  time  he  went  aloft 

He  tried  to  leave  me  there. 

He  went  so  high  above  the  earth 
Lights  from  Jerusalem  shone. 
Right  thar  we  parted  company 
And  he  came  down  alone. 
I  hit  terra  firma, 
The  buckskin's  heels  struck  free, 
And  brought  a  bunch  of  stars  along 
To  dance  in  front  of  me. 
102 


The  Bronc  That  Wouldn't  Bust 

I'm  not  a-riding  airships 

Nor  an  electric  flying  beast; 

Ain't  got  no  rich  relation 

A-waitin'  me  back  East; 

So  I'll  sell  my  chaps  and  saddle, 

My  spurs  can  lay  and  rust; 

For  there's  now  and  then  a  digger 

That  a  buster  cannot  bust. 

Anonymous. 


THE  OL'  COW  HAWSE 

WHEN  it  comes  to  saddle  hawses,  there's  a  dif- 
ference in  steeds : 
There  is  fancy-gaited  critters  that  will  suit  some 

feller's  needs; 
There  is  nags  high-bred  an'  tony,  with  a  smooth  an' 

shiny  skin, 
That  will  capture  all  the  races  that  you  want  to  run 

'em  in. 
But  fer  one  that  never  tires;  one  that's  faithful,  tried 

and  true ; 
One  that  allus  is  a  "  stayer  "  when  you  want  to 

slam  him  through, 
There  is  but  one  breed  o'  critters  that  I  ever  came 

across 
That  will  allus  stand  the  racket :  'tis  the 

or 

Cow 
Hawse ! 

No,  he  ain't  so  much  fer  beauty,  fer  he's  scrubby  an' 

he's  rough, 
An'  his  temper's  sort  o'  sassy,  but  you  bet  he's  good 

enough ! 
Fer  he'll  take  the  trail  o'  mornin's,  be  it  up  or  be  it 

down, 

104 


The  Ol'  Cow  Hawse 

On  the  range  a-huntin'  cattle  or  a-lopin'  into  town, 
An'  he'll  leave  the  miles  behind  him,  an'  he'll  never 

sweat  a  hair, 

'Cuz  he's  a  willin'  critter  when  he's  goin'  anywhere. 
Oh,  your  thoroughbred  at  runnin'  in  a  race  may  be 

the  boss, 
But  fer  all  day  ridin'  lemme  have  the 

or 

Cow 
Hawse ! 

When  my  soul  seeks  peace  and  quiet  on  the  home 

ranch  of  the  blest, 
Where  no  storms  or  stampedes  bother,  an'  the  trails 

are  trails  o'  rest, 
When  my  brand  has  been  inspected  an'  pronounced 

to  be  O  K, 
An'  the  boss  has  looked  me  over  an'  has  told  me  I 

kin  stay, 
Oh,   I'm   hopin'   when    I'm   lopin'    off    across   that 

blessed  range 
That  I  won't  be  in  a  saddle  on  a  critter  new  an' 

strange, 
But  I'm  prayin'  every  minnit  that  up  there  I'll  ride 

across 
That  big  heaven  range  o'  glory  on  an 

or 

Cow 
Hawse ! 

E.  A.  Brinninstool. 
105 


THE  BUNK-HOUSE  ORCHESTRA 

WRANGLE  up  your  mouth-harps,  drag  your 
banjo  out, 

Tune  your  old  guitarra  till  she  twangs  right  stout, 
For  the  snow  is  on  the  mountains  and  the  wind  is  on 

the  plain, 

But  we'll  cut  the  chimney's  moanin'  with  a  livelier 
refrain. 

Shinin'  dobe  fire-place,  shadows  on  the  wall 
(See  old  Shorty's  friv'lous  toes  a-twitchin*  at 

the  call:) 
It's  the  best  grand  high  that  there  is  within  the 

law 
When  seven  jolly  punchers  tackle  "  Turkey  in 

the  Straw." 

Freezy  was  the  day's  ride,  lengthy  was  the  trail, 
Ev'ry  steer  was  haughty  with  a  high-arched  tail, 
But  we  held  'em  and  we  shoved  'em  for  our  longin' 

hearts  were  tried 
By  a  yearnin'  for  tobaccer  and  our  dear  fireside. 

Swing  yer  into  stop-time,  don't  you  let  yer  droop 
(You're  about  as  tuneful  as  a  coyote  with  the 
croup!) 

106 


The  Bunk-House  Orchestra 

Ay,  the  cold  wind  bit  when  we  drifted  down  the 

draw, 
But  we  drifted  on  to  comfort  and  to  "  Turkey 

in  the  Straw" 

Snarlin'  when  the  rain  whipped,  cussin'  at  the  ford  — 
Ev'ry  mile  of  twenty  was  a  long  discord, 
But  the  night  is  brimmin'  music  and  its  glory  is  com- 
plete 

When  the  eye  is  razzle-dazzled  by  the  flip  o'  Shorty's 
feet! 

Snappy  for  the  dance,  now,  till  she  up  and 
shoots! 

(Don't  he  beat  the  devil's  wife  for  jiggin'  in 
his  boots?) 

Shorty  got  throwed  high  and  we  laughed  till  he 
was  raw, 

But  tonight  he's  done  forgot  it  prancin*  "  Tur- 
key in  the  Straw'9 

Rainy  dark  or  firelight,  bacon  rind  or  pie, 

Livin'  is  a  luxury  that  don't  come  high; 

Oh,  be  happy  and  onruly  while  our  years  and  luck 

allow, 
For  we  all  must  die  or  marry  less  than  forty  years 

from  now! 

Lively  on  the  last  turn!     Lope  'er  to  the  death! 
(Reddy's  soul  is  willin'  but  he's  gettin*  short  o' 
breath.) 

107 


The  Bunk-House  Orchestra 

Ay,  the  storm  wind  sings  and  old  trouble  sucks 
his  paw 

When  we  have  an  hour  of  firelight  set  to  "  Tur- 
key in  the  Straw" 

Charles  Badger  Clark. 


108 


THE  COWBOY'S  DANCE  SONG 

YOU  can't  expect  a  cowboy  to  agitate  his  shanks 
In  etiquettish  manner  in  aristocratic  ranks 
When  he's  always  been  accustomed  to  shake  the  heel 

and  toe 
At  the  rattling  rancher  dances  where  much  etiquet 

don't  go. 
You  can  be£  I  set  them  laughing  in  quite  an  excited 

way, 

A-giving  of  their  squinters  an  astonished  sort  of  play, 
JVVhen  I  happened  into  Denver  and  was  asked  to  take 

a  prance 
In  the  smooth  and  easy  mazes  of  a  high-toned  dance. 

When  I  got  among  the  ladies  in  their  frocks  of  fleecy 

white, 
And  the  dudes  togged  out  in  wrappings  that  were 

simply  out  of  sight, 
Tell  you  what,  I  was  embarrassed,  and  somehow  I 

couldn't  keep 

From  feeling  like  a  burro  in  a  pretty  flock  of  sheep. 
Every  step  I  made  was  awkward  and  I  blushed  a 

fiery  red 
Like  the  principal  adornment  of  a  turkey  gobbler's 

head. 

109 


The  Cowboy's  Dance  Song 

The  ladies  said  'twas  seldom  that  they  had  had  the 

chance 
To  see  an  old-time  puncher  at  a  high-toned  dance. 

I  cut  me  out  a  heifer  from  a  bunch  of  pretty  girls 
And  yanked  her  to  the  center  to  dance  the  dreamy 

whirls. 
She  laid  her  head  upon  my  bosom  in  a  loving  sort 

of  way 
And  we  drifted  into  heaven  as  the  band  began  to 

play. 
I  could  feel  my  neck  a-burning   from  her  nose's 

breathing  heat, 
And  she  do-ce-doed  around  me,  half  the  time  upon 

my  feet; 
She  peered  up  in  my  blinkers  with  a  soul-dissolving 

glance 
Quite  conducive  to  the  pleasures  of  a  high-toned 

dance. 

Every  nerve  just  got  a-dancing  to  the  music  of  de- 
light 

As  I  hugged  the  little  sagehen  uncomfortably  tight; 

But  she  never  made  a  bellow  and  the  glances  of  her 
eyes 

Seemed  to  thank  me  for  the  pleasure  of  a  genuine 
surprise. 

She  snuggled  up  against  me  in  a  loving  sort  of  way, 

And  I  hugged  her  all  the  tighter  for  her  trustifying 
play,— 

no 


The  Cowboy's  Dance  Song 

Tell  you  what  the  joys  of  heaven  ain't  a  cussed  cir- 
cumstance 
To  the  hug-a-mania  pleasures  of  a  high-toned  dance. 

When  they  struck  the  old  cotillion  on  the  music  bill 

of  fare, 
Every  bit  of  devil  in  me  seemed  to  burst  out  on  a 

tear. 

I  fetched  a  cowboy  whoop  and  started  in  to  rag, 
And  cut  her  with  my  trotters  till  the  floor  began  to 

sag; 
Swung  my  pardner  till  she  got  sea-sick  and  rushed 

for  a  seat; 
I  balanced  to  the  next  one  but  she  dodged  me  slick 

and  neat. — 

Tell  you  what,  I  shook  the  creases  from  my  go-to- 
meeting  pants 
When  I  put  the  cowboy  trimmings  on  that  high-toned 

dance. 

James  Barton  Adams. 


in 


11 

THE  COWBOYS'  CHRISTMAS  BALL 


/      'TltT^Y  out  in  Western  Texas,  where  the  Clear 

W          Fork's  waters  flow, 
Where  the  cattle  are  "  a-browzin',"  and  the  Spanish 

ponies  grow; 
Where  the  Norther  u  comes  a-whistlin'  "  from  be- 

yond the  Neutral  strip 
And  the  prairie  dogs  are  sneezin',  as  if  they  had 

"  the  Grip"; 
Where  the  coyotes  come  a-howlin'  round  the  ranches 

after  dark, 
And  the   mocking-birds   are   singin'    to   the   lovely 

"medderlark"; 
Where  the  'possum  and  the  badger,  and  rattle-snakes 

abound, 
And  the  monstrous  stars  are  winkin'  o'er  a  wilder- 

ness profound; 
Where    lonesome,    tawny   prairies    melt    into    airy 

streams, 
While  the  Double  Mountains  slumber  in  heavenly 

kinds  of  dreams  ; 
Where  the  antelope  is  grazin'  and  the  lonely  plovers 

call  — 
It  was  there  that  I  attended  "  The  Cowboys'  Christ- 

mas Ball." 

112 


The  Cowboys9  Christmas  Ball 

The  town  was  Anson  City,  old  Jones's  county  seat, 
Where  they  raise  Polled  Angus  cattle,  and  waving 

whiskered  wheat; 
Where  the  air  is  soft  and  "  bammy,"  ,ah'  dry  an' 

full  of  health, 
And    the    prairies    is    explodin'    with    agricultural 

wealth ; 
Where  they  print  the  Texas  Western,  that  Hec.  Mc- 

Cann  supplies, 
With  news  and  yarns  and  stories,  of  most  amazin* 

size; 
Where  Frank  Smith-"  pulls  the  badger,"  on  knowin' 

tender  feet,       \r 
And  Democracy's  triumphant,  and  mighty  hard  to 

beat; 
Where  lives  that  good  old  hunter,  John  Milsap  from 

Lamar,    / 
Who  "  used  to  be  the  sheriff,  back  East,  in  Paris, 

sah!" 
'Twas    there,    I    say,    at   Anson,    with    the    lively 

44  Widder  Wall," 

That  I   went  to   that   reception,    "  The   Cowboys' 
/Christmas  Ball." 

The  boys  had  left  the  ranches  and  come  to  town  in 

piles ; 
The  ladies  — "  kinder  scatterin'  " —  had  gathered  in 

for  miles. 

And  yet  the  place  was  crowded,  as  I  remember  well, 

113 


The  Cowboys9  Christmas  Ball 

'Twas  got  for  the  occasion  at  "  The  Morning  Star 
Hotel" 

The  music  was  a  fiddle  and  a  lively  tambourine, 

And  a  "  viol  come  imported,"  by  stage  from  Abilene. 

The  room  was  togged  out  gorgeous  —  with  mistle- 
toe and  shawls, 

And  candles  flickered  frescoes  around  the  airy  walls. 

The    "  wimmin   folks"    looked   lovely  —  the   boys 
looked  kinder  treed, 

Till  their  leader  commenced  yellin' :     "  Whoa,  fel- 
lers, let's  stampede." 

The  music  started  sighin'  and  a-wailin1  through  the 
hall, 

As  a  kind  of  introduction  to  "  The  Cowboys'  Christ- 
mas Ball." 

_^_,    I 

The  leader  was  a  fellow  that  came  from  Swenson's 
Ranch, 

They  called  him  "  Windy  Billy,"  from  "  little  Dead- 
man's  Branch." 

His  rig  was  "  kinder  keerless,"  big  spurs  and  high- 
heeled  boots; 

He  had  the  reputation  that  comes  when  "  fellers 
shoots." 

His  voice  was  like  the  bugle  upon  the  mountain's 
height; 

His  feet  were  animated,  an'  a  mighty  movin'  sight, 

When  he  commenced  to  holler,  "  Neow,  fellers,  stake 
yer  pen ! 

114 


The  Cowboys'  Christmas  Ball 

Lock  horns  to  all  them  heifers,  an'  russle  'em  like 

men. 
Saloot  yer  lovely  critters;  neow  swing  an'  let  'em 

go> 
Climb  the  grape  vine  round  'em  —  all  hands  do- 

ce-do ! 

You  Mavericks,  jine  the  round-up  —  Jest  skip  her 
waterfall," 

Huh!  hit  wuz  gittin'  happy,  "  The  Cowboys'  Christ- 
mas Ball!" 

The  boys  were  tolerable  skittish,  the  ladies  power- 
ful neat, 

That  old  bass  viol's  music  just  got  there  with  both 
feet. 

That  wailin'  frisky  fiddle,  I  never  shall  forget; 

And  Windy  kept  a  singin' —  I  think  I  hear  him 
yet  — 

"  O  Xes,  chase  your  squirrels,  an'  cut  'em  to  one 
side, 

Spur  Treadwell  to  the  center,  with  Cross  P  Char- 
ley's bride, 

Doc.  Hollis  down  the  middle,  an'  twine  the  ladies' 
chain, 

Varn  Andrews  pen  the  fillies  in  big  T.  Diamond's 
train. 

All  pull  yer  freight  tergether,  neow  swallow  fork 
an'  change, 

'  Big  Boston  '  lead  the  trail  herd,  through  little 
Pitchfork's  range. 


The  Cowboys'  Christmas  Ball 

Purr   round   yer   gentle  pussies,    neow   rope    'em! 

Balance  all!" 

Huh !    hit    wuz    gittin'  active  — "  The    Cowboys' 

Christmas  Ball!" 

The  dust  riz  fast  an'  furious,  we  all  just  galloped 

round, 
Till  the  scenery  got  so  giddy,  that  Z  Bar  Dick  was 

downed. 

We  buckled  to  our  partners,  an'  told  'em  to  hold  on, 
Then  shook  our  hoofs  like  lightning  until  the  early 

dawn. 
Don't  tell  me  'bout  cotillions,  or  germans.     No  sir- 

'ee! 
That  whirl  at  Anson  City  just  takes  the  cake  with 

me. 

I'm  sick  of  lazy  shufflin's,  of  them  I've  had  my  fill, 
Give  me  a  fronteer  breakdown,  backed  up  by  Windy 

Bill. 
McAllister  ain't  nowhere!  when  Windy  leads  the 

show, 

I've  seen  'em  both  in  harness,  an'  so  I  sorter  know  — 
Oh,  Bill,  I  sha'n't  forget  yer,  and  I'll  oftentimes 

recall, 
That      lively-gaited      sworray — "  The      Cowboys' 

Christmas  Ball." 

Larry  Chittenden  in  " Ranch  Verses" 


116 


A  DANCE  AT  THE  RANCH 

FROM  every  point  they  gaily  come,  the  broncho's 
unshod  feet 

Pat  at  the  green  sod  of  the  range  with  quick,  em- 
phatic beat; 

The  tresses  of  the  buxom  girls  as  banners  stream 
behind  — 

Like  silken,  castigating  whips  cut  at  the  sweeping 
wind. 

The  dashing  cowboys,  brown  of  face,  sit  in  their  sad- 
dle thrones 

And  sing  the  wild  songs  of  the  range  in  free,  uncul- 
tured tones, 

Or  ride  beside  the  pretty  girls,  like  gallant  cavaliers, 

And  pour  the  usual  fairy  tales  into  their  listening  ears. 

Within  the   "  best  room  "   of  the   ranch  the  jolly 
gathered  throng 

Buzz  like  a  hive  of  human  bees  and  lade  the  air  with 
song; 

The  maidens  tap  their  sweetest  smiles  and  give  their 
tongues  full  rein 

In  efforts  to  entrap  the  boys  in  admiration's  chain. 

The  fiddler  tunes  the  strings  with  pick  of  thumb  and 
scrape  of  bow, 

Finds  one  string  keyed  a  note  too  high,  another  one 
too  low; 

117 


A  Dance  at  the  Ranch 

Then  rosins  up  the  tight-drawn  hairs,   the  young 

folks  in  a  fret 
Until  their  ears  are  greeted  with  the  warning  words, 

"  All  set! 

S'lute  yer  pardners!     Let  'er  go! 
Balance  all  an'  do-ce-do ! 
Swing  yer  girls  an'  run  away ! 
Right  an'  left  an'  gents  sashay! 
Gents  to  right  an'  swing  or  cheat ! 
On  to  next  gal  an'  repeat ! 
Balance  next  an'  don't  be  shy ! 
Swing  yer  pard  an'  swing  'er  high ! 
Bunch  the  gals  an'  circle  round ! 
Whack  yer  feet  until  they  bound ! 
Form  a  basket!     Break  away! 
Swing  an'  kiss  an'  all  git  gay! 
Al'man  left  an'  balance  all! 
Lift  yer  hoofs  an'  let  'em  fall! 
Swing  yer  op'sites !     Swing  agin ! 
Kiss  the  sagehens  if  you  kin!  " 
An'  thus  the  merry  dance  went  on  till  morning's 

struggling  light 
In  lengthening  streaks   of  grey  breaks   down   the 

barriers  of  the  night, 

And  broncs  are  mounted  in  the  glow  of  early  morn- 
ing skies 
By   weary-limbed    young    revelers    with    drooping, 

sleepy  eyes. 

The  cowboys  to  the  ranges  speed  to  "  work  "  the 
lowing  herds, 

III 


A  Dance  at  the  Ranch 

The  girls  within  their  chambers  hide  their  sleep  like 

weary  birds, 
And  for  a  week  the  young  folks  talk  of  what  a  jolly 

spree 
They  had  that  night  at  Jackson's  ranch  down  on  the 

Owyhee. 

Anonymous. 


119 


AT  A  COWBOY  DANCE 

GIT  yo'  little  sagehens  ready; 
Trot  'em  out  upon  the  floor  — 
Line  up  there,  you  critters!     Steady! 

Lively,  now !     One  couple  more. 
Shorty,  shed  that  ol'  sombrero; 
Broncho,  douse  that  cigaret; 
Stop  yer  cussin',  Casimero, 

'Fore  the  ladies.     Now,  all  set: 

S'lute  yer  ladies,  all  together; 

Ladies  opposite  the  same; 
Hit  the  lumber  with  yer  leather; 

Balance  all  an'  swing  yer  dame; 
Bunch  the  heifers  in  the  middle; 

Circle  stags  an'  do-ce-do; 
Keep  a-steppin'  to  the  fiddle; 

Swing  'em  'round  an'  off  you  go. 

First  four  forward.     Back  to  places. 

Second  foller.     Shuffle  back  — 
Now  you've  got  it  down  to  cases  — 

Swing  'em  till  their  trotters  crack. 
Gents  all  right  a-heel  an'  toein'; 

Swing  'em  —  kiss  'em  if  yo'  kin  — 
On  to  next  an'  keep  a-goin' 

Till  yo'  hit  yer  pards  agin. 
1 20 


At  a  Cowboy  Dance 

Gents  to  center.     Ladies  'round  'em; 

Form  a  basket;  balance  all; 
Swing  yer  sweets  to  where  yo'  found  'em; 

All  p'mnade  around  the  hall. 
Balance  to  yer  pards  an'  trot  'em 

'Round  the  circle  double  quick; 
Grab  an'  squeeze  'em  while  you've  got  'em  — 

Hold  'em  to  it  if  they  kick. 

Ladies,  left  hand  to  yer  sonnies ; 

Alaman;  grand  right  an'  left; 
Balance  all  an'  swing  yer  honies  — 

Pick  'em  up  an'  feel  their  heft. 
All  p'mnade  like  skeery  cattle  ; 

Balance  all  an'  swing  yer  sweets; 
Shake  yer  spurs  an'  make  'em  rattle  — 

Keno!     Promenade  to  seats. 

James  Barton  Adams. 


121 


THE  COWBOYS'  BALL 

YIP!  Tip!  Tip!  Yip!  tunin'  up  the  fiddle; 
You  an'  take  yo'r  pardner  there,  standin'  by 

the  wall! 
Say  "  How! "  make  a  bow,  and  sashay  down  the 

middle; 
Shake  yo'r  leg  lively  at  the  Cowboys'  Ball. 

Big  feet,  little  feet,  all  the  feet  a-clickin' ; 
Everybody  happy  an'  the  goose  a-hangin'  high; 
Lope,  trot,  hit  the  spot,  like  a  colt  a-kickin' ; 
Keep  a-stompin'  leather  while  you  got  one  eye. 

Yah !    Hoo !   Larry !   would  you   watch   his   wings 

a-floppin' 

Jumpin'  like  a  chicken  that's  a-lookin'  for  its  head; 
Hi !  Yip !  Never  slip,  and  never  think  of  stoppin', 
Just  keep  yo'r  feet  a-movin'  till  we  all  drop  dead! 

High  heels,  low  heels,  moccasins  and  slippers ; 
Real  old  rally  round  the  dipper  and  the  keg ! 
Uncle  Ed's  gettin'  red  —  had  too  many  dippers; 
Better  get  him  hobbled  or  he'll  break  his  leg ! 

Yip!  Yip!  Yip!  Yip!  tunin'  up  the  fiddle; 

Pass  him  up  another  for  his  arm  is  gettin'  slow. 

122 


The  Cowboys'  Ball 

Bow  down!  right  in  town  —  and  sashay  down  the 

middle; 
Got  to  keep  a-movin'  for  to  see  the  show ! 

Yes,  mam !     Warm,  mam  ?     Want  to  rest  a  minute  ? 

Like  to  get  a  breath  of  air  lookin'  at  the  stars? 

All  right!    Fine  night —    Dance?    There's  nothin' 

in  it! 
That's  my  pony  there,  peekin'  through  the  bars. 

Bronc,  mam?     No,  mam!     Gentle  as  a  kitten! 
Here,  boy!     Shake  a  hand!     Now,  mam,  you  can 

see; 
Night's  cool.     What  a  fool  to  dance,  instead  of 

sittin' 
Like  a  gent  and  lady,  same  as  you  and  me. 

Yip!  Yip!  Yip!  Yip!  tunin'  up  the  fiddle; 
Well,  them  as  likes  the  exercise  sure  can  have  it  all ! 
Right  wing,  lady  swings,  and  sashay  down  the  mid- 
dle .  .  . 
But  this  beats  dancin'  at  the  Cowboys'  Ball. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs. 


123 


PART  III 
COWBOY  TYPES 


DOWN  where  the  Rio  Grande  ripples  — • 
When  there's  water  In  its  bed; 
Where  no  man  is  ever  drunken  — •. 
All  prefer  mescal  instead; 
Where  no  lie  is  ever  uttered  — 
There  being  nothin'  one  can  trade; 
Where  no  marriage  vows  are  broken 
'Cause  the  same  are  never  made. 


THE  COWBOY 

HE  wears  a  big  hat  and  big  spurs  and  all  that, 
And  leggins  of  fancy  fringed  leather; 
He  takes  pride  in  his  boots  and  the  pistol  he  shoots, 
And  he's  happy  in  all  kinds  of  weather ; 
He's  fond  of  his  horse,  it's  a  broncho,  of  course, 
For  oh,  he  can  ride  like  the  devil; 
He  is  old  for  his  years  and  he  always  appears 
Like  a  fellow  who's  lived  on  the  level; 
He  can  sing,  he  can  cook,  yet  his  eyes  have  the  look 
Of  a  man  that  to  fear  is  a  stranger; 
Yes,  his  cool,  quiet  nerve  will  always  subserve 
For  his  wild  life  of  duty  and  danger. 
He  gets  little  to  eat,  and  he  guys  tenderfeet, 
And  for  fashion,  oh  well!  he's  not  in  it; 
He  can  rope  a  gay  steer  when  he  gets  on  its  ear 
At  the  rate  of  two-forty  a  minute ; 
His  saddle's  the  best  in  the  wild,  woolly  West, 
Sometimes  it  will  cost  sixty  dollars; 
Ah,  he  knows  all  the  tricks  when  he  brands  mave- 
ricks, 

But  his  knowledge  is  not  got  from  your  scholars; 
He  is  loyal  as  steel,  but  demands  a  square  deal, 
And  he  hates  and  despises  a  coward; 
Yet  the  cowboy,  you'll  find,  to  women  is  kind 
Though  he'll  fight  till  by  death  overpowered. 

127 


The  Cowboy 

Hence  I  say  unto  you, —  give  the  cowboy  his  due 

And  be  kind,  my  friends,  to  his  folly; 

For  he's  generous  and  brave  though  he  may  not 

behave 
Like  your  dudes,  who  are  so  melancholy. 

Anonymous. 


128 


BAR-Z  ON  A  SUNDAY  NIGHT 

WE  ain't  no  saints  on  the  Bar-Z  ranch, 
'Tis  said  —  an'  we  know  who  'tis  — 
"  Th'  devil's  laid  hold  on  us,  tooth  an'  branch, 
An'  uses  us  in  his  biz." 
Still,  we  ain't  so  bad  but  we  might  be  wuss, 
An'  you'd  sure  admit  that's  right, 
If  you  happened  —  an'  unbeknown  to  us  — 
Around,  of  a  Sunday  night. 

Th'  week-day  manners  is  stowed  away, 

Th'  jokes  an'  the  card  games  halts, 

When  Dick's  ol'  fiddle  begins  to  play 

A  toon  —  an'  it  ain't  no  waltz. 

It  digs  fer  th'  things  that  are  out  o'  sight, 

It  delves  through  th'  toughest  crust, 

It  grips  th'  heart-strings,  an'  holds  'em  tight, 

Till  we've  got  ter  sing  —  er  bust ! 

With  pipin'  treble  the  kid  starts  in, 
An'  Hell!  how  that  kid  kin  sing! 
"  Yield  not  to  temptation,  fer  yieldin'  is  sin," 
He  leads,  an'  the  rafters  ring; 
"  Fight  manfully  onward,  dark  passions  subdue," 
We  shouts  it  with  force  an'  vim; 
129 


Bar-Z  on  a  Sunday  Night 

"  Look  ever  to  Jesus,  he'll  carry  you  through,"- 
That's  puttin'  it  up  to  Him ! 

We  ain't  no  saints  on  the  oP  Bar-Z, 

But  many  a  time  an'  oft 

When  oP  fiddle's  a-pleadin',  "  Abide  with  me," 

Our  hearts  gets  kinder  soft. 

An'  we  makes  some  promises  there  an'  then 

Which  we  keeps  —  till  we  goes  to  bed, — 

That's  the  most  could  be  ast  o'  a  passel  o'  men 

What  ain't  no  saints,  as  I  said. 

Percival  Combes. 


130 


A  COWBOY  RACE 

A    PATTERING  rush  like  the  rattle  of  hail 
./"V     When  the  storm  king's  wild  coursers  are  out 

on  the  trail, 

A  long  roll  of  hoofs, —  and  the  earth  is  a  drum ! 
The  centaurs !     See !     Over  the  prairies  they  come ! 

A  rollicking,  clattering,  battering  beat; 

A  rhythmical  thunder  of  galloping  feet; 

A  swift-swirling  dust-cloud  —  a  mad  hurricane 

Of  swarthy,  grim  faces  and  tossing,  black  mane ; 

Hurrah!  in  the  face  of  the  steeds  of  the  sun 
The  gauntlet  is  flung  and  the  race  is  begun ! 

/.  C.  Davis. 


131 


THE  HABIT 

I'VE  beat  my  way  wherever  any  winds  have  blown; 
I've  bummed  along  from  Portland  down  to  San 

Antone ; 

From  Sandy  Hook  to  Frisco,  over  gulch  and  hill, — 
For  once  you  git  the  habit,  why,  you  can't  keep  still. 

I  settled  down  quite  frequent,  and  I  says,  says  I, 

"  I'll  never  wander  further  till  I  come  to  die." 

But  the  wind  it  sorter  chuckles,  "  Why,  o'  course 

you  will." 
An'  sure  enough  I  does  it  'cause  I  can't  keep  still. 

I've  seen  a  lot  o'  places  where  I'd  like  to  stay, 
But  I  gets  a-feelin'  restless  an'  I'm  on  my  way. 
I  was  never  meant  for  settin'  on  my  own  door  sill, 
An',  once  you  git  the  habit,  why,  you  can't  keep  still. 

I've  been  in  rich  men's  houses  an'  I've  been  in  jail, 
But  when  it's  time  for  leavin'  I  jes  hits  the  trail. 
I'm  a  human  bird  of  passage  and  the  song  I  trill 
Is,  "  Once  you  git  the  habit,  why,  you  can't  keep 
still."  ' 

132 


The  Habit 

The  sun  is  sorter  coaxin',  an'  the  road  is  clear, 
An'  the  wind  is  singin'  ballads  that  I  got  to  hear. 
It  ain't  no  use  to  argue  when  you  feel  the  thrill; 
For,  once  you  git  the  habit,  why,  you  can't  keep  still. 

Bert  on  Braley. 


133 


A  RANGER 

HE  never  made  parade  of  tooth  or  claw; 
He  was  plain  as  us  that  nursed  the  bawlin' 

herds. 

Though  he  had  a  rather  meanin'-lookin'  jaw, 
He  was  shy  of  exercisin'  it  with  words. 
As  a  circus-ridin'  preacher  of  the  law, 
All  his  preachin'  was  the  sort  that  hit  the  nail; 
He  was  just  a  common  ranger,  just  a  ridin'  pilgrim 

stranger, 
And  he  labored  with  the  sinners  of  the  trail. 

Once  a  Yaqui  knifed  a  woman,  jealous  mad, 
Then  hit  southward  with  the  old,  old  killer's  plan, 
And  nobody  missed  the  woman  very  bad, 
While  they'd  just  a  little  rather  missed  the  man. 
But  the  ranger  crossed  his  trail  and  sniffed  it  glad, 
And  then  loped  away  to  bring  him  back  again, 
For  he  stood  for  peace  and  order  on  the  lonely, 

sunny  border 
And  his  business  was  to  hunt  for  sinful  men ! 

So  the  trail  it  led  him  southward  all  the  day, 
Through  the  shinin'  country  of  the  thorn  and  snake, 
Where  the  heat  had  drove  the  lizards  from  their 
play 

134 


A  Ranger 

To  the  shade  of  rock  and  bush  and  yucca  stake. 
And  the  mountains  heaved  and  rippled  far  away 
And  the  desert  broiled  as  on  the  devil's  prong, 
But  he  didn't  mind  the  devil  if  his  head  kept  clear 

and  level 
And  the  hoofs  beat  out  their  clear  and  steady  song. 

Came  the  yellow  west,  and  on  a  far  off  rise 
Something  black  crawled  up  and  dropped  beyond 

the  rim, 

And  he  reached  his  rifle  out  and  rubbed  his  eyes 
While  he  cussed  the  southern  hills  for  growin'  dim. 
Down  a  hazy  'royo  came  the  coyote  cries, 
Like  they  laughed  at  him  because  he'd  lost  his  mark, 
And  the  smile  that  brands  a  fighter  pulled  his  mouth 

a  little  tighter 
As  he  set  his  spurs  and  rode  on  through  the  dark. 

Came  the  moonlight  on  a  trail  that  wriggled  higher 
Through  the  mountains  that  look  into  Mexico, 
And  the  shadows  strung  his  nerves  like  banjo  wire 
And  the  miles  and  minutes  dragged  unearthly  slow. 
Then  a  black  mesquite  spit  out  a  thread  of  fire 
And  the  canyon  walls  flung  thunder  back  again, 
And  he  caught  himself  and  fumbled  at  his  rifle  while 

he  grumbled 
That  his  bridle  arm  had  weight  enough  for  ten. 

Though  his  rifle  pointed  wavy-like  and  slack 
And  he  grabbed  for  leather  at  his  hawse's  shy, 

135 


A  Ranger 

Yet  he  sent  a  soft-nosed  exhortation  back 
That  convinced  the  sinner  —  just  above  the  eye. 
So  the  sinner  sprawled  among  the  shadows  black 
While  the  ranger  drifted  north  beneath  the  moon, 
Wabblin'  crazy  in  his  saddle,  workin'  hard  to  stay 

a-straddle 
While  the  hoofs  beat  out  a  slow  and  sorry  tune. 

When  the  sheriff  got  up  early  out  of  bed, 
How  he  stared  and  vowed  his  soul  a  total  loss, 
As  he  saw  the  droopy  thing  all  blotched  with  red 
That  came  ridin'  in  aboard  a  tremblin'  hawse. 
But  "  I  got  'im  "  was  the  most  the  ranger  said 
And  you  couldn't  hire  him,  now,  to  tell  the  tale; 
He  was  just  a  quiet  ranger,  just  a  ridin'  pilgrim 

stranger 
And  he  labored  with  the  sinners  of  the  trail. 

Charles  Badger  Clark,  Jr. 


136 


THE  INSULT 

I'VE  swum  the  Colorado  where  she  runs  close 
down  to  hell  ; 

I've  braced  the  faro  layouts  in  Cheyenne; 
I've  fought  for  muddy  water  with  a  bunch  of  howlin' 

swine 
An'  swallowed  hot  tamales  and  cayenne ; 

I've  rode  a  pitchin'  broncho  till  the  sky  was  under- 
neath ; 

I've  tackled  every  desert  in  the  land; 
I've  sampled  XX  whiskey  till  I  couldn't  hardly  see 
An'  dallied  with  the  quicksands  of  the  Grande; 

I've  argued  with  the  marshals  of  a  half  a  dozen 

burgs ; 

I've  been  dragged  free  and  fancy  by  a  cow ; 
I've  had  three  years'  campaignin'  with  the  fightin', 

bitin'  Ninth, 
An'  I  never  lost  my  temper  till  right  now. 

I've  had  the  yeller  fever  and  been  shot  plum  full  of 

holes ; 

I've  grabbed  an  army  mule  plum  by  the  tail; 
But  I've  never  been  so  snortin',  really  highfalutin' 

mad 
As  when  you  up  and  hands  me  ginger  ale. 

Anonymous. 
137 


'  THE  ROAD  TO  RUIN  "  * 

I   WENT  into  the  grog-shop,  Tom,  and  stood  be- 
side the  bar, 
And  drank  a  glass  of  lemonade  and  smoked  a  bad 

seegar. 
The  same  old  kegs  and  jugs  was  thar,  the  same  we 

used  to  know 

When  we  was  on  the  round-up,  Tom,  some  twenty 
years  ago. 

The  bar-tender  is  not  the  same.     The  one  who  used 

to  sell 

Corroded  tangle-foot  to  us,  is  rotting  now  in  hell. 
This  one  has  got  a  plate-glass  front,  he  combs  his 

hair  quite  low, 
He  looks  just  like  the  one  we  knew  some  twenty  years 

ago. 

Old  soak  came  up  and  asked  for  booze  and  had  the 

same  old  grin 
While   others  burned  their  living  forms   and  wet 

their  coats  with  gin. 
Outside    the    doorway    women    stood,    their    faces 

seamed  with  woe 
And  wept  just  like  they  used  to  weep  some  twenty 

years  ago. 

1  A  famous  saloon  in  West  Texas  carried  this  unusual  sign. 

138 


"  The  Road  to  Ruin  " 

I  asked  about  our  old-time  friends,  those  cheery, 
sporty  men; 

And  some  was  in  the  poor-house,  Tom,  and  some 
was  in  the  pen. 

You  know  the  one  you  liked  the  best?  —  the  hang- 
man laid  him  low, — 

Oh,  few  are  left  that  used  to  booze  some  twenty 
years  ago. 

You  recollect  our  favorite,  whom  pride  claimed  for 

her  own, — 
He  used  to  say  that  he  could  booze  or  leave  the 

stuff  alone. 
He  perished  for  the  James  Fitz  James,  out  in  the 

rain  and  snow, — 
Yes,  few  survive  who  used  to  booze  some  twenty 

years  ago. 

I  visited  the  old  church  yard  and  there  I  saw  the 
graves 

Of  those  who  used  to  drown  their  woes  in  old  fer- 
mented ways. 

I  saw  the  graves  of  women  thar,  lying  where  the 
daisies  grow, 

Who  wept  and  died  of  broken  hearts  some  twenty 
years  ago. 

Anonymous. 


139 


THE  OUTLAW 

WHEN  my  loop  takes  hold  on  a  two-year-old, 
By  the  feet  or  the  neck  or  the  horn, 
He  kin  plunge  and  fight  till  his  eyes  go  wfyite, 

But  I'll  throw  him  as  sure  as  you're  born. 
Though  the  taut  rope  sing  like  a  banjo  string 

And  the  latigoes  creak  and  strain, 

Yet  I've  got  no  fear  of  an  outlaw  steer 

And  I'll  tumble  him  on  the  plain. 

For  a  man  is  a  man  and  a  steer  is  a  beast, 
And  the  man  is  the  boss  of  the  herd; 

And  each  of  the  bunch,  from  the  biggest  to  least, 
Must  come  down  when  he  says  the  word. 

When  my  leg  swings  'cross  on  an  outlaw  hawse 

And  my  spurs  clinch  into  his  hide, 
He  kin  r'ar  and  pitch  over  hill  and  ditch, 

But  wherever  he  goes  I'll  ride. 
Let  '5m  spin  and  flop  like  a  crazy  top, 

Or  flit  like  a  wind-whipped  smoke, 
But  he'll  know  the  feel  of  my  rowelled  heel 

Till  he's  happy  to  own  he's  broke. 

For  a  man  is  a  man  and  a  hawse  is  a  brute, 
And  the  hawse  may  be  prince  of  his  clan, 
140 


The  Outlaw 

But  he'll  bow  to  the  bit  and  the  steel-shod  boot 
And  own  that  his  boss  is  the  man. 

When  the  devil  at  rest  underneath  my  vest 

Gets  up  and  begins  to  paw, 
And  my  hot  tongue  strains  at  its  bridle-reins, 

Then  I  tackle  the  real  outlaw; 
When  I  get  plumb  riled  and  my  sense  goes  wild, 

And  my  temper  has  fractious  growed, 
If  he'll  hump  his  neck  just  a  triflin'  speck, 

Then  it's  dollars  to  dimes  I'm  throwed. 

For  a  man  is  a  man,  but  he9s  partly  a  beast  — 
He  kin  brag  till  he  makes  you  deaf, 

But  the  one,  lone  brute,  from  the  West  to  the 

East, 
That  he  kaint  quite  break,  is  himself. 

Charles  B.  Clark,  Jr. 


141 


THE  DESERT 

the  lean  coyote   told  me,   baring  his 
slavish  soul, 
As  I  counted  the  ribs  of  my  dead  cayuse  and 

cursed  at  the  desert  sky, 
The  tale  of  the  Upland  Rider's  fate  while  I  dug  in 

the  water  hole 

For  a  drop,  a  taste  of  the  bitter  seep;  but  the 
water  hole  was  dry! 

"  He  came,"  said  the  lean  coyote,  "  and  he  cursed 

as  his  pony  fell; 
And  he  counted  his  pony's  ribs  aloud;  yea,  even 

as  you  have  done. 
He  raved  as  he  ripped  at  the  clay-red  sand  like  an 

imp  from  the  pit  of  hell, 

Shriveled  with  thirst  for  a  thousand  years  and 
craving  a  drop  —  just  one." 

"  His  name?  "  I  asked,  and  he  told  me,  yawning  to 

hide  a  grin: 
"  His  name  is  writ  on  the  prison  roll  and  many 

a  place  beside; 

Last,  he  scribbled  it  on  the  sand  with  a  finger  seared 
and  thin, 

142 


The  Desert 

And  I  watched  his  face  as  he  spelled  it  out  — 
laughed  as  I  laughed,  and  died. 

"  And  thus/'  said  the  lean  coyote,  "  his  need  is  the 

hungry's  feast, 
And  mine."     I   fumbled  and  pulled  my  gun  — 

emptied  it  wild  and  fast, 
But  one  of  the  crazy  shots  went  home  and  silenced 

the  waiting  beast; 

There  lay  the  shape  of  the  Liar,  dead !     'Twas  I 
that  should  laugh  the  last. 

Laugh?     Nay,  now  I  would  write  my  name  as  the 

Upland  Rider  wrote; 
Write?     What  need,   for  before  my  eyes  in  a 

wide  and  wavering  line 
I  saw  the  trace  of  a  written  word  and  letter  by  letter 

float 

Into  a  mist  as  the  world  grew  dark;  and  I  knew 
that  the  name  was  mine. 

Dreams  and  visions  within  the  dream;  turmoil  and 

fire  and  pain; 
Hands  that  proffered  a  brimming  cup  —  empty, 

ere  I  could  take; 
Then  the  burst  of  a  thunder-head  —  rain !     It  was 

rude,  fierce  rain ! 

Blindly   down    to    the    hole    I    crept,    shivering, 
drenched,  awake! 

H3 


The  Desert 

Dawn  —  and  the  edge  of  the  red-rimmed  sun  scat- 
tering golden  flame, 
As  stumbling  down  to  the  water  hole  came  the 

horse  that  I  thought  was  dead; 
But  never  a  sign  of  the  other  beast  nor  a  trace  of  a 

rider's  name; 

Just  a  rain-washed  track  and  an  empty  gun  — 
and  the  old  home  trail  ahead. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs. 


144 


WHISKEY  BILL,— A  FRAGMENT 

A -DOWN  the  road  and  gun  in  hand 
Comes  Whiskey  Bill,  mad  Whiskey  Bill; 
A-lookin'  for  some  place  to  land 
Comes  Whiskey  Bill. 
An'  everybody'd  like  to  be 
Ten  miles  away  behind  a  tree 
When  on  his  joyous,  aching  spree 
Starts  Whiskey  Bill. 

The  times  have  changed  since  you  made  love, 

O  Whiskey  Bill,  O  Whiskey  Bill! 

The  happy  sun  grinned  up  above 

At  Whiskey  Bill. 

And  down  the  middle  of  the  street 

The  sheriff  comes  on  toe  and  feet 

A-wishin'  for  one  fretful  peek 

At  Whiskey  Bill. 

The  cows  go  grazing  o'er  the  lea, — 

Poor  Whiskey  Bill!     Poor  Whiskey  Bill! 

An'  aching  thoughts  pour  in  on  me 

Of  Whiskey  Bill. 

The  sheriff  up  and  found  his  stride; 

Bill's  soul  went  shootin'  down  the  slide, — 

How  are  things  on  the  Great  Divide, 

O  Whiskey  Bill? 

Anonymous. 
H5 


DENVER  JIM 

fellers,  that  ornery  thief  must  be  nigh  us, 
For  I  jist  saw  him  across  this  way  to  the  right ; 
Ah,  there  he  is  now  right  under  that  burr-oak 
As  fearless  and  cool  as  if  waitin'  all  night. 
Well,  come  on,  but  jist  get  every  shooter  all  ready 
Fur  him,  if  he's  spilin'  to  give  us  a  fight; 
The  birds  in  the  grove  will  sing  chants  to  our  picnic 
An'  that  limb  hangin'  over  him  stands  about  right. 

"  Say,  stranger,  good  mornin'.  Why,  dog  blast  my 
lasso,  boys, 

If  it  ain't  Denver  Jim  that's  corralled  here  at  last. 

Right  aside  for  the  jilly.    Well,  Jim,  we  are  searchin' 

All  night  for  a  couple  about  of  your  cast. 

An'  seein'  yer  enter  this  openin'  so  charmin' 

We  thought  perhaps  yer  might  give  us  the  trail. 

Haven't  seen  anything  that  would  answer  descrip- 
tion? 

What  a  nerve  that  chap  has,  but  it  will  not  avail. 

"  Want  to  trade  bosses  fur  the  one  I  am  stridin' ! 
Will  you  give  me  five  hundred  betwixt  fur  the  boot? 
Say,  Jim,  that  air  gold  is  the  strongest  temptation 
An'  many  a  man  would  say  take  it  and  scoot. 

146 


Denver  Jim 

But  we  don't  belong  to  that  denomination; 
You  have  got  to  the  end  of  your  rope,  Denver  Jim. 
In  ten  minutes  more  we'll  be  crossin'  the  prairie, 
An'  you  will  be  hangin'  there  right  from  that  limb. 

"  Have  you  got  any  speakin'  why  the  sentence  ain't 

proper? 

Here,  take  you  a  drink  from  the  old  whiskey  flask. 
Ar'  not  dry?     Well,  I  am,  an'  will  drink  ter  yer, 

pard, 

An'  wish  that  this  court  will  not  bungle  this  task. 
There,  the  old  lasso  circles  your  neck  like  a  fixture ; 
Here,  boys,  take  the  line  an'  wait  fer  the  word; 
I  am  sorry,  old  boy,  that  your  claim  has  gone  under ; 
Fer  yer  don't  meet  yer  fate  like  the  low,  common 

herd. 

"What's  that?     So  yer  want  me  to  answer  a  let- 
ter,— 

Well,  give  it  to  me  till  I  make  it  all  right, 
A  moment  or  two  will  be  only  good  manners, 
The  judicious  acts  of  this  court  will  be  white. 
1  Long  Point,  Arkansas,  the  thirteenth  of  August, 
My  dearest  son  James,  somewhere  out  in  the  West, 
For  long,  weary  months  I've  been  waiting  for  tid- 
ings 
Since  your  last  loving  letter  came  eastward  to  bless. 

u  '  God  bless  you,  my  son,   for  thus  sending  that 
money, 

147 


Denver  Jim 

Remembering  your  mother  when  sorely  in  need. 
May  the  angels  from  heaven  now  guard  you  from 

danger 

And  happiness  follow  your  generous  deed. 
How  I  long  so  to  see  you  come  into  the  doorway, 
As  you  used  to,  of  old,  when  weary,  to  rest. 
May  the  days  be  but  few  when  again  I  can  greet  you, 
My  comfort  and  staff,  is  your  mother's  request' 

"  Say,  pard,  here's  your  letter.     I'm  not  good  at 

writin', 

I  think  you'd  do  better  to  answer  them  lines; 
An'  fer  fear  I  might  want  it  I'll  take  off  that  lasso, 
An'  the  hoss  you  kin  leave  when  you  git  to  the  pines. 
An'  Jim,  when  yer  see  yer  old  mother  jist  tell  her 
That  a  wee  bit  o'  writin'  kinder  hastened  the  day 
When  her  boy  could  come  eastward  to  stay  with  her 

always. 
Come  boys,  up  and  mount  and  to  Denver  away." 

O'er  the  prairies  the  sun  tipped  the  trees  with  its 

splendor, 
The   dew  on   the   grass   flashed   the   diamonds   so 

bright, 

As  the  tenderest  memories  came  like  a  blessing 
From  the  days  of  sweet  childhood  on  pinions  of 

light. 
Not  a  word  more  was  spoken  as  they  parted  that 

morning, 

148 


Denver  Jim 

Yet  the  trail  of  a  tear  marked  each  cheek  as  they 

turned ; 

For  higher  than  law  is  the  love  of  a  mother, — 
It  reversed  the  decision, —  the  court  was  adjourned. 

Sherman  D.  Richardson. 


THE  VIGILANTES 

WE  are  the  whirlwinds  that  winnow  the 
West  — 

We  scatter  the  wicked  like  straw! 
We  are  the  Nemeses,  never  at  rest  — 
We  are  Justice,  and  Right,  and  the  Law ! 

Moon  on  the  snow  and  a  blood-chilling  blast, 
Sharp-throbbing  hoofs  like  the  heart-beat  of  fear, 
A  halt,  a  swift  parley,  a  pause  —  then  at  last 
A  stiff,  swinging  figure  cut  darkly  and  sheer 
Against  the  blue  steel  of  the  sky;  ghastly  white 
Every  on-looking  face.     Men,  our  duty  was  clear; 
Yet  ah !  what  a  soul  to  send  forth  to  the  night ! 

Ours  is  a  service  brute-hateful  and  grim; 
Little  we  love  the  wild  task  that  we  seek; 
Are  they  dainty  to  deal  with  —  the  fear-rigid  limb, 
The  curse  and  the  struggle,  the  blasphemous  shriek? 
Nay,  but  men  must  endure  while  their  bodies  have 

breath; 

God  made  us  strong  to  avenge  Him  the  weak  — 
To  dispense  his  sure  wages  of  sin  —  which  is  death. 

We  stand  for  our  duty:  while  wrong  works  its  will, 
Our  search  shall  be  stern  and  our  course  shall  be 
wide; 

150 


The  Vigilantes 

Retribution  shall  prove  that  the  just  liveth  still, 
And  its  horrors  and  dangers  our  hearts  can  abide, 
That  safety  and  honor  may  tread  in  our  path; 
The  vengeance  of  Heaven  shall  speed  at  our  side, 
As  we  follow  unwearied  our  mission  of  wrath. 

We  are  the  whirlwinds  that  winnow  the  West  — 
We  scatter  the  wicked  like  straw! 
We  are  the  Nemeses,  never  at  rest  — 
We  are  Justice,  and  Right,  and  the  Law! 

Margaret  Ashmun. 


THE  BANDIT'S  GRAVE 

D  lava  rock  and  glaring  sand, 
'Neath  the  desert's  brassy  skies, 

Bound  in  the  silent  chains  of  death 

A  border  bandit  lies. 

The  poppy  waves  her  golden  glow 

Above  the  lowly  mound; 

The   cactus   stands   with   lances   drawn, — 

A  martial  guard  around. 

His  dreams  are  free  from  guile  or  greed, 

Or  foray's  wild  alarms. 

No  fears  creep  in  to  break  his  rest 

In  the  desert's  scorching  arms. 

He  sleeps  in  peace  beside  the  trail, 

Where  the  twilight  shadows  play, 

Though  they  watch  each  night  for  his  return 

A  thousand  miles  away. 

From  the   mesquite   groves   a   night  bird  calls 
When  the  western  skies  grow  red; 
The  sand  storm  sings  his  deadly  song 
Above  the  sleeper's  head. 
His  steed  has  wandered  to  the  hills 
And  helpless  are  his  hands, 

152 


The  Bandit's  Grave 

Yet  peons  curse  his  memory 
Across  the  shifting  sands. 

The  desert  cricket  tunes  his  pipes 

When  the  half-grown  moon  shines  dim; 

The  sage  thrush  trills  her  evening  song  — 

But  what  are  they  to  him? 

A   rude-built   cross  beside   the   trail 

That  follows  to  the  west  . 

Casts  its  long-drawn,  ghastly  shadow 

Across  the  sleeper's  breast. 

A  lone  coyote  comes  by  night 

And  sits  beside  his  bed, 

Sobbing  the  midnight  hours  away 

With  gaunt,  up-lifted  head. 

The  lizard  trails  his  aimless  way 

Across  the  lonely  mound, 

When  the  star-guards  of  the  desert 

Their  pickets  post  around. 

The  winter  snows  will  heap  their  drifts 

Among  the  leafless  sage; 

The  pallid  hosts  of  the  blizzard 

Will  lift  their  voice  in  rage; 

The  gentle  rains  of  early  spring 

Will  woo  the  flowers  to  bloom, 

And  scatter  their  fleeting  incense 

O'er  the  border  bandit's  tomb. 

Charles  Pitt. 
153 


THE  OLD  MACKENZIE  TRAIL 

SEE,  stretching  yonder  o'er  that  low  divide 
Which  parts  the  falling  rain, —  the  eastern  slope 
Sends  down  its  waters  to  the  southern  sea 
Through    Double    Mountain's    winding    length    of 

stream; 

The  western  side  spreads  out  into  a  plain, 
Which  sinks  away  o'er  tawny,  rolling  leagues 
At  last  into  the  rushing  Rio  Grande, — 
See,  faintly  showing  on  that  distant  ridge, 
The  deep-cut  pathways  through  the  shelving  crest, 
Sage-matted  now  and  rimmed  with  chaparral, 
The  dim  reminders  of  the  olden  times, 
The  life  of  stir,  of  blood,  of  Indian  raid, 
The  hunt  of  buffalo  and  antelope; 
The  camp,  the  wagon  train,  the  sea  of  steers; 
The  cowboy's  lonely  vigil  through  the  night; 
The  stampede  and  the  wild  ride  through  the  storm; 
The  call  of  California's  golden  flood; 
The  impulse  of  the  Saxon's  "  Westward  Ho  " 
Which  set  our  fathers'  faces  from  the  east, 
To  spread  resistless  o'er  the  barren  wastes, 
To  people  all  the  regions  'neath  the  sun  — 
Those  vikings  of  the  old  Mackenzie  Trail. 

It  winds  —  this  old  forgotten  cattle  trail  — 
Through  valleys  still  and  silent  even  now, 

154 


The  Old  Mackenzie  Trail 

Save  when  the  yellow-breasted  desert  lark 

Cries  shrill  and  lonely  from  a  dead  mesquite, 

In  quivering  notes  set  in  a  minor  key; 

The  endless  round  of  sunny  days,  of  starry  nights, 

The  desert's  blank  immutability. 

The  coyote's  howl  is  heard  at  dark  from  some 

Low-lying  hill;  companioned  by  the  loafer  wolf 

They  yelp  in  concert  to  the  far  off  stars, 

Or  gnaw  the  bleached  bones  in  savage  rage 

That  lie  unburied  by  the  grass-grown  paths. 

The  prairie  dogs  play  sentinel  by  day 

And  backward  slips  the  badger  to  his  den; 

The  whir,  the  fatal  strike  of  rattlesnake, 

A  staring  buzzard  floating  in  the  blue, 

And,  now  and  then,  the  curlew's  eerie  call, — 

Lost,  always  lost,  and  seeking  evermore. 

All  else  is  mute  and  dormant;  vacantly 

The  sun  looks  down,  the  days  run  idly  on, 

The  breezes  whirl  the  dust,  which  eddying  falls 

Smothering  the  records  of  the  westward  caravans, 

Where  silent  heaps  of  wreck  and  nameless  graves 

Make  milestones  for  the  old  Mackenzie  Trail. 

Across  the  Brazos,  Colorado,  through 
Concho's  broad,  fair  valley,  sweeping  on 
By  Abilene  it  climbs  upon  the  plains, 
The  Llano  Estacado  (beyond  lie  wastes 
Of  alkali  and  hunger  gaunt  and  death), — 
And  here  is  lost  in  shifting  rifts  of  sand. 
Anon  it  lingers  by  a  hidden  spring 

155 


The  Old  Mackenzie  Trail 

That  bubbles  joy  into  the  wilderness; 

Its  pathway  trenched  that  distant  mountain  side, 

Now  grown  to  gulches  through  torrential  rain. 

De  Vaca  gathered  pinons  by  the  way, 

Long  ere  the  furrows  grew  on  yonder  hill, 

Cut  by  the  creaking  prairie-schooner  wheels; 

La  Salle,  the  gentle  Frenchman,  crossed  this  course, 

And  went  to  death  and  to  a  nameless  grave. 

For  ages  and  for  ages  through  the  past 

Comanches  and  Apaches  from  the  north 

Came  sweeping  southward,  searching  for  the  sun, 

And  charged  in  mimic  combat  on  the  sea. 

The  scions  of  Montezuma's  low-browed  race 

Perhaps  have  seen  that  knotted,  thorn-clad  tree; 

Or  sucked  the  cactus  apples  growing  there. 

All  these  have  passed,  and  passed  the  immigrants, 

Who  bore  the  westward  fever  in  their  brain, 

The  Norseman  tang  for  roving  in  their  veins ; 

Who  loved  the  plains  as  sailors  love  the  sea, 

Braved  danger,  death,  and  found  a  resting  place 

While  traveling  on  the  old  Mackenzie  Trail. 

Brave  old  Mackenzie  long  has  laid  him  down 
To  rest  beyond  the  trail  that  bears  his  name; 
A  granite  mountain  makes  his  monument; 
The  northers,  moaning  o'er  the  low  divide, 
Go  gently  past  his  long  deserted  camps. 
No  more  his  rangers  guard  the  wild  frontier, 
No  more  he  leads  them  in  the  border  fight. 
No  more  the  mavericks,  winding  stream  of  horns 

156 


The  Old  Mackenzie  Trail 

To  Kansas  bound;  the  dust,  the  cowboy  songs 
And  cries,  the  pistol's  sharp  report, —  the  free, 
Wild  days  in  Texas  by  the  Rio  Grande. 
And  some  men  say  when  dusky  night  shuts  down, 
Dark,  cloudy  nights  without  a  kindly  star, 
One  sees  dim  horsemen  skimming  o'er  the  plain 
Hard  by  Mackenzie's  trail;  and  keener  ears 
Have  heard  from  deep  within  the  bordering  hills 
The  tramp  of  ghostly  hoofs,  faint  cattle  lows, 
The  rumble  of  a  moving  wagon  train, 
Sometimes  far  echoes  of  a  frontier  song; 
Then  sounds  grow  fainter,  shadows  troop  away, — 
On  westward,  westward,  as  they  in  olden  time 
Went  rangeing  o'er  the  old  Mackenzie  Trail. 

John  A.  Lomax. 


157 


THE  SHEEP-HERDER  * 

A;L  day  across  the  sagebrush  flat, 
Beneath  the  sun  of  June, 
My  sheep  they  loaf  and  feed  and  bleat 

Their  never  changin'  tune. 
And  then,   at  night  time,  when  they  lay 

As  quiet  as  a  stone, 
I  hear  the  gray  wolf  far  away, 

"Alo-one!"  he  says,  "Alo-one!" 

A-a !  ma-a !  ba-a !  eh-eh-eh ! 

The  tune  the  woollies  sing; 
It's  rasped  my  ears,  it  seems,   for  years, 

Though  really  just  since  Spring; 
And  nothin',  far  as  I  can  see 

Around  the  circle's  sweep, 
But  sky  and  plain,  my  dreams  and  me 

And  them  infernal  sheep. 

I've  got  one  book  —  it's  poetry  — 

A  bunch  of  pretty  wrongs 
An  Eastern  lunger  gave  to  me; 

He  said  'twas  "  shepherd  songs." 
But,  though  that  poet  sure  is  deep 

And  has  sweet  things  to  say, 

1  Only  such  cowboys   as  are   in   desperate  need  of   employment 
ever  become  sheep-herders. 

158 


The  Sheep-Herder 

He  never  seen  a  herd  of  sheep 
Or  smelt  them,  anyway. 


A-a !  ma-a !  ba-a !  eh-eh-eh ! 

My  woollies  greasy  gray, 
An  awful  change  has  hit  the  range 

Since  that  old  poet's  day. 
For  you're  just  silly,  on'ry  brutes 

And  I  look  like  distress, 
And  my  pipe  ain't  the  kind  that  toots 

And  there's  no  "  shepherdess." 

Yet  'way  down  home  in  Kansas  State, 

Bliss  Township,   Section  Five, 
There's  one  that's  promised  me  to  wait, 

The  sweetest  girl  alive; 
That's  why  I  salt  my  wages  down 

And  mend  my  clothes   with  strings, 
While  others  blow  their  pay  in  town 

For  booze  and  other  things. 

A-a !  ma-a !  ba-a !  eh-eh-eh  I 

My  Minnie,  don't  be  sad; 
Next  year  we'll  lease  that  splendid  piece 

That  corners  on  your  dad. 
We'll  drive  to   "  literary,"   dear, 

The  way  we  used  to  do 
And  turn  my  lonely  workin'  here 

To  happiness  for  you. 
i59 


The  Sheep-Herder 

Suppose,    down   near   that   rattlers'    den, 

While  I  sit  here  and  dream, 
I'd  spy  a  bunch  of  ugly  men 

And  hear  a  woman  scream. 
Suppose  I'd  let  my  rifle  shout 

And  drop  the  men  in  rows, 
And  then  the  woman  should  turn  out  — 

My  Minnie  !  —  just  suppose. 

A-a  !  ma-a !  ba-a  !  eh-eh-eh  1 

The  tune  would  then  be  gay; 
There  is,  I  mind,  a  parson  kind 

Just  forty  miles  away. 
Why,   Eden  would  come  back  again, 

With  sage  and  sheep  corrals, 
And  I  could  swing  a  singin'  pen 

To  write  her  "  pastorals." 

I  pack  a  rifle  on  my  arm 

And  jump  at  flies  that  buzz; 
There's  nothin'  here  to  do  me  harm; 

I  sometimes  wish  there  was. 
If  through  that  brush  above  the  pool 

A  red  should  creep  —  and  creep  — 
Wah !  cut  down  on  'im !  —  Stop,  you  fool ! 

That's  nothin'  but  a  sheep. 

A-a!  ma-a!  ba-a!  —  Hell! 

Oh,  sky  and  plain  and  bluff! 
Unless  my  mail  comes  up  the  trail 
1 60 


The  Sheep-Herder 

I'm  locoed,  sure  enough. 
What's  that?  —  a   dust-whiff  near  the  butte 

Right  where  my  last  trail  ran, 
A  movin'  speck,  a  —  wagon !     Hoot ! 

Thank  God!  here  comes  a  man. 

Charles  Badger  Clark,  Jr. 


161 


A  COWBOY  AT  THE  CARNIVAL 

YES,  o'  cose  it's  interestin'  to  a  feller  from  the 
range, 
Mighty  queerish,  too,  I  tell  you, —  sich  a  racket  fer 

a  change; 
From  a  life  among  the  cattle,   from  a  wool  shirt 

and  the  chaps 
To  the  biled  shirt  o'  the  city  and  the  other  tony 

traps. 
Never  seed  sich  herds  o'  people  throwed  together, 

every  brand 

O'  humanity,  I  reckon,  in  this  big  mountain  land 
Rounded  up  right  here  in  Denver,  runnin'  on  new 

sort  o'  feed. 
Actin'  restless  an'  oneasy,  like  they  threatened  to 

stampede. 

Mighty  curious  to  a  rider  comin'  from  the  range, 

he  feels 
What  you'd  call  a  lost  sensation  from  sombrero  clar 

to  heels; 
Like  a  critter  stray  that  drifted  in  a  windstorm  from 

its  range 
To  another  run  o'  grazin'  where  the  brands  it  sees 

are  strange. 

162 


A  Cowboy  at  the  Carnival 

Then  I  see  a  city  herder,  a  policeman,  don't  you 

know, 
Sort  o'  think  he's  got  men  spotted  an'  is  'bout  to  make 

a  throw 
Fer  to  catch  me  an'  corral  me  fer  a  stray  till  he  can 

talk 
On  the  wire  an'  tell  the  owner  fer  to  come  an'  get 

his  stock. 

Yes,  it's  mighty  strange  an'  funny  fer  a  cowboy,  as 

you  say, 

Fer  to  hit  a  camp  like  this  one,  so  unanimously  gay; 
But  I  want  to  tell  you,  pardner,  that  a  rider  sich  as  me 
Isn't  built  fer  feedin'  on  sich  crazy  jamboree. 
Every  bone  I  got's  a-achin',  an'  my  feet  as  sore  as  if 
I  had  hit  a  bed  o'  cactus,  an'  my  hinges  is  as  stiff 
From  a-hittin'  these  hot  pavements  as  a  feller's  jints 

kin  git, — 
'Taint  like  holdin'  down  a  broncho  on  the  range,  a 

little  bit. 

I'm  hankerin',  I  tell  you,  fer  to  hit  the  trail  an'  run 

Like  a  crazy,  locoed  yearlin'  from  this  big  cloud- 
burst o'  fun 

Back  toward  the   cattle   ranches,   where   a   feller's 
breath  comes  free 

An'  he  wears  the  clothes  that  fits  him,  'stead  o'  this 
slick  toggery. 

Where  his  home  is  in  the  saddle,  an'  the  heavens  is 
his  roof, 

163 


A  Cowboy  at  the  Carnival 

An'   his   ever'day  companions  wears  the   hide   an' 

cloven  hoof, 
Where  the  beller  of  the  cattle  is  the  only  sound  he 

hears, 
An'  he  never  thinks  o'  nothin'  but  his  grub  an'  hoss 

an'  steers. 

Anonymous. 


164 


THE  OLD  COWMAN 

I  RODE  across  a  valley  range 
I  hadn't  seen  for  years. 
The  trail  was   all  so  spoilt  and  strange 
It  nearly  fetched  the   tears. 
I  had  to  let  ten  fences  down, — 
(The  fussy  lanes  ran  wrong) 
And  each  new  line  would  make  me  frown 
And  hum  a  mournin'  song. 

Oh,  it's  squeak!  squeak!  squeak! 
Hear  'em  stretchin'  of  the  wire! 
The  nester  brand  is  on  the  land; 
I  reckon  I'll  retire. 

While  progress  toots  her  brassy  horn 
And  makes  her  motor  buzz, 
I  thank  the  Lord  I  wasn't  born 
No  later  than  I  wuz ! 

'Twas  good  to  live  when  all  the  sod, 
Without  no  fence  nor  fuss, 
Belonged  in  partnership  to  God, 
The  Government  and  us. 
With  skyline  bounds   from  east  to  west 
And  room  to  go  and  come, 
I  loved  my  fellowman  the  best 
When  he  was  scattered  some. 

165 


The  Old  Cowman 

Oh,  it's  squeak!  squeak!  squeak! 

Close  and  closer  cramps  the  wire ! 

There's  hardly  play  to  back   away 

And  call  a  man  a  liar. 

Their  house  has  locks  on  every  door; 

Their  land  is  in  a  crate. 

There  ain't  the  plains  of  God  no  more, 

They're  only  real  estate. 

There's  land  where  yet  no  ditchers  dig 

Nor  cranks  experiment; 

It's  only  lovely,  free  and  big 

And  isn't  worth  a  cent. 

I  pray  that  them  who  come  to  spoil 

May  wait  till  I  am  dead 

Before  they  foul  that  blessed  soil 

With  fence  and  cabbage  head. 

Yet  it's  squeak!  squeak!  squeak  I 

Far  and  farther  crawls  the  wire! 

To  crowd  and  pinch  another  inch 

Is  all  their  heart's  desire. 

The  world  is   over-stocked  with  men, 

And  some  will  see  the  day 

When  each  must  keep  his  little  pen, 

But  I'll  be  far  away. 

When  my  old  soul  hunts  range  and  rest 
Beyond  the  last  divide, 
Just  plant  me  in  some  stretch  of  West 

166 


The  Old  Cowman 

That's  sunny,  lone  and  wide. 

Let  cattle  rub  my  tombstone  down 

And  coyotes  mourn  their  kin, 

Let  hawses  paw  and  tramp  the  moun', — 

But  don't  you  fence  it  in! 

Oh,  it's  squeak!  squeak!  squeak! 

And  they  pen  the  land  with  wire. 

They  figure   fence   and  copper   cents 

Where  we  laughed  round  the  fire. 

Job  cussed  his  birthday,  night  and  morn 

In  his  old  land  of  Uz, 

But  I'm  just  glad  I  wasn't  born 

No  later  than  I  wuz ! 

Charles  Badger  Clark,  Jr. 


167 


THE  GILA  MONSTER  ROUTE 

THE  lingering  sunset  across  the  plain 
Kissed  the   rear-end  door  of  an   east-bound 

train, 

And  shone  on  a  passing  track  close  by 
Where  a  ding-bat  sat  on  a  rotting  tie. 

He  was  ditched  by  a  shock  and  a  cruel  fate. 
The  con  high-balled,  and  the  manifest  freight 
Pulled  out  on  the  stem  behind  the  mail, 
And  she  hit  the  ball  on  a  sanded  rail. 

As  she  pulled  away  in  the  falling  light 
He  could  see  the  gleam  of  her  red  tail-light. 
Then  the  moon  arose  and  the  stars  came  out  — 
He  was  ditched  on  the  Gila  Monster  Route. 

Nothing  in  sight  but  sand  and  space; 
No  chance  for  a  gink  to  feed  his  face ; 
Not  even  a  shack  to  beg  for  a  lump, 
Or  a  hen-house  to  frisk  for  a  single  gump. 

He  gazed  far  out  on  the  solitude; 
He  drooped  his  head  and  began  to  brood; 
He  thought  of  the  time  he  lost  his  mate 
In  a  hostile  burg  on  the  Nickle  Plate. 

168 


The  Gila  Monster  Route 

They  had  mooched  the  stem  and  threw  their  feet, 
And  speared  four-bits  on  which  to  eat; 
But  deprived  themselves  of  daily  bread 
And  sluffed  their  coin  for  "  dago  red." 

Down  by  the  track  in  the  jungle's  glade, 
In  the  cool  green  grass,  in  the  tules'  shade, 
They  shed  their  coats  and  ditched  their  shoes 
And  tanked  up  full  of  that  colored  booze. 

Then  they  took  a  flop  with  their  skins  plumb  full. 
And  they  did  not  hear  the  harnessed  bull, 
Till  he  shook  them  out  of  their  boozy  nap, 
With  a  husky  voice  and  a  loaded  sap. 

They  were  charged  with  "  vag,"   for  they  had  no 

kale, 

And  the  judge  said,  "  Sixty  days  in  jail." 
But  the  John  had  a  bindle, —  a  worker's  plea, — 
So  they  gave  him  a  floater  and  set  him  free. 

They  had  turned  him  up,  but  ditched  his  mate, 
So  he  grabbed  the  guts  of  an  east-bound  freight, 
He  flung  his  form  on  a  rusty  rod, 
Till  he  heard  the  shack  say,  "  Hit  the  sod!  " 

The  John  piled  off,  he  was  in  the  ditch, 
With  two  switch  lamps  and  a  rusty  switch, — 
A  poor,  old,  seedy,  half-starved  bo 
On  a  hostile  pike,  without  a  show. 

169 


The  Gila  Monster  Route 

From  away  off  somewhere  in  the  dark 

Came  the  sharp,  short  notes  of  a  coyote's  bark. 

The  bo  looked  round  and  quickly  rose 

And  shook  the  dust  from  his  threadbare  clothes. 

Off  in  the  west  through  the  moonlit  night 
He  saw  the  gleam  of  a  big  head-light  — 
An  east-bound  stock  train  hummed  the  rail; 
She  was  due  at  the  switch  to  clear  the  mail. 

As  she  drew  up  close,  the  head-end  shack 
Threw  the  switch  to  the  passenger  track, 
The  stock  rolled  in  and  off  the  main, 
And  the  line  was  clear  for  the  west-bound  train. 

When  she  hove  in  sight  far  up  the  track, 

She  was  workin'  steam,  with  her  brake  shoes  slack, 

She  hollered  once  at  the  whistle  post, 

Then  she  flitted  by  like  a  frightened  ghost. 

He  could  hear  the  roar  of  the  big  six-wheel, 
And  her  driver's  pound  on  the  polished  steel, 
And  the  screech  of  her  flanges  on  the  rail 
As  she  beat  it  west  o'er  the  desert  trail. 

The  John  got  busy  and  took  the  risk, 
He  climbed  aboard  and  began  to  frisk, 
He  reached  up  high  and  began  to  feel 
For  the  end-door  pin  —  then  he  cracked  the  seal. 

170 


The  Gila  Monster  Route 

'Twas  a  double-decked  stock-car,  filled  with  sheep, 
Old  John  crawled  in  and  went  to  sleep. 
She  whistled  twice  and  high-balled  out, — 
They  were  off,  down  the  Gila  Monster  Route. 

L.  F.  Post  and  Glenn  Norton. 


171 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  PLAINS 

HO  !  wind  of  the  far,  far  prairies ! 
Free  as  the  waves  of  the  sea! 
Your  voice  is  sweet  as  in  alien  street 
The  cry  of  a  friend  to  me! 
You  bring  me  the  breath  of  the  prairies, 
Known  in  the  days  that  are  sped, 
The  wild  geese's  cry  and  the  blue,  blue  sky 
And  the  sailing  clouds  o'er  head! 

My  eyes  are  weary  with  longing 

For  a  sight  of  the  sage  grass  gray, 

For  the  dazzling  light  of  a  noontide  bright 

And  the  joy  of  the  open  day! 

Oh,  to  hear  once  more  the  clanking 

Of  the  noisy  cowboy's  spur, 

And  the  south  wind's  kiss  like  a  mild  caress 

Making  the  grasses  stir. 

I  dream  of  the  wide,  wide  prairies 
Touched  with  their  glistening  sheen, 
The  coyotes'  cry  and  the  wind-swept  sky 
And  the  waving  billows  of  green ! 
And  oh,  for  a  night  in  the  open 
Where  no  sound  discordant  mars, 
And  the  marvelous  glow,  when  the  sun  is  low, 
And  the  silence  under  the  stars! 

172 


The  Call  of  the  Plains 

Ho,  wind  from  the  western  prairies! 

Ho,  voice  from  a  far  domain! 

I  feel  in  your  breath  what  I'll  feel  till  death, 

The  call  of  the  plains  again ! 

The  call  of  the  Spirit  of  Freedom 

To  the  spirit  of  freedom  in  me; 

My  heart  leaps  high  with  a  jubilant  cry 

And  I  answer  in  ecstasy ! 

Ethel  MacDiarmid. 


WHERE  THE  GRIZZLY  DWELLS  * 

I  ADMIRE  the  artificial  art  of  the  East; 
But  I  love  more  the  inimitable  art  of  the  West, 
Where  nature's  handiwork  lies  in  virginal  beauty. 
Amidst  the  hum  of  city  life 
I  saunter  back  to  dreams  of  home. 
Astride  the  back  of  my  trusty  steed 
I  wander  away,  losing  myself 
In  the  foothills  of  the  Rockies. 

Away  from  human  habitations, 
Up  the  rugged  slopes, 
Through  the  timbered  stretches, 
I  hear  the  frightful  cry  of  wolves 
And  see  a  bear  sneaking  up  behind. 

Many  nights  ago, 

While  herding  a  bunch  of  cattle 

During  the  round-up  season, 

I  lay  upon  the  grass 

Looking  at  the  mated  stars; 

I  wondered  if  a  cowboy 

Could  go  to  the  Unknown  Place, 

1  Fox  is  a  halfbreed  Indian  who  sent  me  a  lot  of  verse.  Al- 
though he  had  never  heard  of  Walt  Whitman,  these  stanzas  sug- 
gest that  poet.  The  spelling  and  punctuation  are  mine. 

174 


Where  the  Grizzly  Dwells 

The  Happy  Hunting  Ground, 
When  this  short  life  is  over. 

But,  here  or  there,  I  shall  always  live 

In  the  land  of  mountain  air 

Where  the  grizzly  dwells 

And  sage  brush  grows; 

Where  mountain  trout  are  not  a  few; 

In  the  land  of  the  Bitterroot, — 

The  Indian  land, —  Land  of  the  Golden  West. 

James  Fox. 


175 


A  COWBOY  TOAST 

HERE'S  to  the  passing  cowboy,  the  plowman's 
pioneer; 

His  home,  the  boundless  mesa,  he  of  any  man  the 
peer; 

Around  his  wide  sombrero  was  stretched  the  rat- 
tler's hide,  ' 

His  bridle  sporting  conchos,  his  lasso  at  his  side. 

All  day  he  roamed  the  prairies,  at  night  he,  with 
the  stars, 

Kept  vigil  o'er  thousands  held  by  neither  posts  nor 
bars; 

With  never  a  diversion  in  all  the  lonesome  land, 

But  cattle,  cattle,  cattle,  and  sun  and  sage  and 
sand. 

Sometimes  the  hoot-owl  hailed  him,  when  scudding 

through  the  flat; 
And  prairie  dogs  would  sauce  him,  as  at  their  doors 

they  sat; 
The  rattler  hissed  its  warning  when  near  its  haunts 

he  trod 
Some  Texas  steer  pursuing  o'er  the  pathless  waste 

of  sod. 
With  lasso,  quirt,  and  'colter  the  cowboy  knew  his 

skill; 

176 


A   Cowboy   Toast 

They  pass  with  him  to  history  and  naught  their  place 

can  fill; 
While  he,  bold  broncho  rider,  ne'er  conned  a  lesson 

page,— 
But  cattle,  cattle,  cattle,  and  sun  and  sand  and  sage. 


And  oh !  the  long  night  watches,  with  terror  in  the 

skies ! 
When  lightning  played  and  mocked  him  till  blinded 

were  his  eyes; 
When  raged  the  storm  around  him,  and  fear  was 

in  his  heart 
Lest  panic-stricken  leaders  might  make  the  whole 

herd  start. 

That  meant  a  death  for  many,  perhaps  a  wild  stam- 
pede, 
When  none  could  stem  the  fury  of  the  cattle  in  the 

lead; 
Ah,  then  life  seemed  so  little   and  death  so  very 

near, — 
With  cattle,  cattle,  cattle,  and  darkness  everywhere. 

Then  quaff  with  me  a  bumper  of  water,  clear  and 

pure, 
To  the  memory  of  the  cowboy  whose  fame  must  e'er 

endure 

From  the  Llano  Estacado  to  Dakota's  distant  sands, 
Where  were  herded  countless  thousands  in  the  days 

of  fenceless  lands. 

177 


A   Cowboy   Toast 

Let  us  rear  for  him  an  altar  in  the  Temple  of  the 

Brave, 

And  weave  of  Texas  grasses  a  garland  for  his  grave; 
And  offer  him  a  guerdon  for  the  work  that  he  has 

done 

With  cattle,  cattle,  cattle,  and  sage  and  sand  and 
sun. 

James  Barton  Adams. 


178 


RIDIN'  UP  THE  ROCKY  TRAIL  FROM 
TOWN 

"Billy  Leamont  rode  out  of  the  town  — 

Close  at  his  shoulder  rode  Jack  Lor  ell  — 
Over  the  leagues  of  the  prairies  brown, 
Into  the  hills  where  the  sun   goes  down  — 
Billy  Leamont  and  Jack  Lorell! 
*  *  * 

Billy  Leamont  looked  down  the  dell  — 

Dead  below  him  lay  Jack  Lorell  — 
With  his  gun  at  his  forehead  he  fired  and  fell, 
Then  rode  they  two  through  the  streets  of  hell  — 

Billy  Leamont  and  Jack  Lorell!  " 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BILLY  LEAMONT.1 

WE'RE  the  children  of  the  open  and  we  hate 
the  haunts  o'  men, 

But  we  had  to  come  to  town  to  get  the  mail. 
And  we're  ridin'  home  at  daybreak  —  'cause  the  air 

is  cooler  then  — 

All  'cept  one  of  us  that  stopped  behind  in  jail. 
Shorty's  nose  won't  bear  paradin',  Bill's  off  eye  is 

darkly  fadin', 

All  our  toilets  show  a  touch  of  disarray, 
For  we  found  that  City  life  is  a  constant  round  of 

strife 
And  we  aint  the  breed  for  shyin'  from  a  fray. 

!This  fragment  is  not  included  in  Mr.  Clark's  poem. 

179 


Ridin'   Up  the  Rocky   Trail  from   Town 

Chant  your  warhoops,  pardners,  dear,  while  the  east 

turns  pale  with  fear 

And  the  chaparral  is  tremblin'  all  aroun* 
For  we're  wicked  to  the  marrer;  we're  a  midnight 

dream  of  terror 
When  we're  ridin'  up  the  rocky  trail  from  town! 

We  acquired  our  hasty  temper  from  our  friend,  the 

centipede. 

From  the  rattlesnake  we  learnt  to  guard  our  rights. 
We  have  gathered  fightin'  pointers  from  the  famous 

bronco  steed 

And  the  bobcat  teached  us  reppertee  that  bites. 
So  when  some  high-collared  herrin'  jeered  the  garb 

that  I  was  wearin' 

'Twasn't  long  till  we  had  got  where  talkin'  ends, 
And  he  et  his  ill-bred  chat,  with  a  sauce  of  derby  hat, 
While  my  merry  pardners  entertained  his  friends. 

Sing  *er  out,  my  buckeroos!     Let  the  desert  hear 

the  news. 

Tell  the  stars  the  way  we  rubbed  the  haughty  down. 
We're  the  fiercest  wolves  a-prowlin'  and  it's  just  our 

night  for  howlin' 
When  we're  ridin'  up  the  rocky  trail  from  town. 

Since  the  days  that  Lot  and  Abram  split  the  Jordan 

range  in  halves, 

Just  to  fix  it  so  their  punchers  wouldn't  fight, 

1 80 


Ridin*   Up  the  Rocky   Trail  from   Town 

Since  old  Jacob  skinned  his  dad-in-law  of  six  years' 

crop  of  calves 

And  then  hit  the  trail  for  Canaan  in  the  night, 
There  has  been  a  taste  for  battle  'mong  the  men 

that  follow  cattle 

And  a  love  of  doin1  things  that's  wild  and  strange, 
And  the  warmth  of  Laban's  words  when  he  missed 

his  speckled  herds 
Still  is  useful  in  the  language  of  the  range. 

Sing  'er  out,   my   bold  coyotes!  leather  fists   and 

leather  throats, 

For  we  wear  the  brand  of  Ishm'el  like  a  crown. 
We're  the  sons  oy  desolation,  we're  the  outlaws  of 

creation  — 
Ee-Yow!  a-ridin}  up  the  rocky  trail  from  town! 


181 


THE  DISAPPOINTED  TENDERFOOT 

HE  reached  the  West  in  a  palace  car  where  the 
writers  tell  us  the  cowboys  are, 
With  the  redskin  bold  and  the  centipede  and  the 

rattlesnake  and  the  loco  weed. 
He  looked  around  for  the  Buckskin  Joes  and  the 

things  he'd  seen  in  the  Wild  West  shows  — 
The  cowgirls  gay  and  the  bronchos  wild  and  the 

painted  face  of  the  Injun  child. 
He  listened  close  for  the  fierce  war-whoop,  and  his 

pent-up  spirits  began  to  droop, 
And  he  wondered  then  if  the  hills  and  nooks  held 

none  of  the  sights  of  the  story  books. 

He'd  hoped  he  would  see  the  marshal  pot  some 
bold  bad  man  with  a  pistol  shot, 

And  entered  a  low  saloon  by  chance,  where  the  ten- 
derfoot is  supposed  to  dance 

While  the  cowboy  shoots  at  his  bootheels  there  and 
the  smoke  of  powder  begrims  the  air, 

But  all  was  quiet  as  if  he'd  strayed  to  that  silent 
spot  where  the  dead  are  laid. 

Not  even  a  faro  game  was  seen,  and  none  flaunted 
the  long,  long  green. 

'Twas  a  blow  for  him  who  had  come  in  quest  of  a 
touch  of  the  real  wild  woolly  West. 
182 


The  Disappointed  Tenderfoot 

He  vainly  sought  for  a  bad  cayuse  and  the  swirl  and 

swish  of  the  flying  noose, 
And  the  cowboy's  yell  as  he  roped  a  steer,  but  nothing 

of  this  fell  on  his  ear. 
Not  even  a  wide-brimmed  hat  he  spied,  but  derbies 

flourished  on  every  side, 
And  the  spurs   and  the  "  chaps  "   and  the  flannel 

shirts,  the  high-heeled  boots  and  the  guns  and 

the  quirts, 
The  cowboy  saddles  and  silver  bits  and  fancy  bridles 

and  swell  outfits 
He'd  read  about  in  the  novels  grim,  were  not  on 

hand  for  the  likes  of  him. 

He  peered  about  for  a  stagecoach  old,  and  a  miner- 
man  with  a  bag  of  gold, 

And  a  burro  train  with  its  pack-loads  which  he'd 
read  they  tie  with  the  diamond  hitch. 

The    rattler's    whir    and    the    coyote's    wail    ne'er 
sounded  out  as  he  hit  the  trail; 

And  no  one  knew  of  a  branding  bee   or  a   steer 
roundup  that  he  longed  to  see. 

But  the  oldest  settler  named  Six-Gun  Sim  rolled  a 
cigarette    and   remarked   to   him: 

"  The  West  hez  gone  to  the  East,  my  son,  and  it's 
only  in  tents  sich  things  is  done." 

E.  A.  Brinninstool. 


183 


A  COWBOY  ALONE  WITH  HIS  CON- 
SCIENCE 

WHEN  I  ride  into  the  mountains  on  my  little 
broncho  bird, 
Whar  my  ears  are  never  pelted  with  the  bawlin'  o' 

the  herd, 
An'  a  sort  o'  dreamy  quiet  hangs  upon  the  western 

air, 

An'  thar  ain't  no  animation  to  be  noticed  anywhere; 
Then  I  sort  o'  feel  oneasy,  git  a  notion  in  my  head 
I'm  the  only  livin'  mortal  —  everybody  else  is 

dead  — 
An'  I  feel  a  queer  sensation,  rather  skeery  like,  an' 

odd, 
When  thar  ain't  nobody  near  me,  'ceptin'  God. 

Every  rabbit  that  I  startle  from  its  shaded  restin' 
place, 

Seems  a  furry  shaft  o'  silence  shootin'  into  noise- 
less space, 

An'  a  rattlesnake  a  crawlin'  through  the  rocks  so 
old  an'  gray 

Helps  along  the  ghostly  feelin'  in  a  rather  startlin' 
way. 

Every  breeze  that  dares  to  whisper  does  it  with  a 
bated  breath, 

184 


A  Cowboy  Alone  With  His  Conscience 

Every  bush  stands  grim  an'  silent  in  a  sort  o'  livin' 

death  — 
Tell  you  what,  a  feller's  feelin's  give  him  many  an 

icy  prod, 
When  thar  ain't  nobody  near  him,  'ceptin'  God. 

Somehow  allus  git  to  thinkin'  o'  the  error  o'  my 

ways, 
An'  my  memory  goes  wingin'  back  to  childhood's 

happy  days, 
When  a  mother,  now  a  restin'  in  the  grave  so  dark 

an'  deep, 
Used  to  listen  while  I'd  whisper,  "  Now  I  lay  me 

down  to  sleep." 
Then  a  sort  o'  guilty  feelin'  gits  a  surgin'  in  my 

breast, 

An'  I  wonder  how  I'll  stack  up  at  the  final  judg- 
ment test, 
Conscience  allus  welts  it  to  me  with  a  mighty  cuttin' 

rod, 
When  thar  ain't  nobody  near  me,  'ceptin'  God. 

Take  the  very  meanest  sinner  that  the  nation  ever 
saw, 

One  that  don't  respect  religion  more'n  he  respects  the 
law, 

One  that  never  does  an  action  that's  commendable 
or  good, 

An'  immerse  him  fur  a  season  out  in  Nature's  soli- 
tude, 

185 


A  Cowboy  Alone  With  His  Conscience 

An'  the  cog-wheels  o'  his  conscience  '11  be  rattled 

out  o'  gear, 
More'n  if  he  'tended  preachin'  every  Sunday  in  the 

year, 
Fur  his  sins  'ill  come  a  ridin'  through  his  cranium 

rough  shod, 

When  thar  ain't  nobody  near  him,  'ceptin'  God. 

James  Barton  Adams. 


1 86 


JUST  A-RIDIN' ! 

OH,  for  me  a  horse  and  saddle 
Every  day  without  a  change; 
With  the  desert  sun  a-blazin1 
On  a  hundred  miles  o'  range, 

Just  a-ridin\  just  a-ridin', 
Desert  ripplin'  in  the  sun, 
Mountains  blue  along  the  skyline,- 
I  don't  envy  anyone. 

When  my  feet  are  in  the  stirrups 

And  my  horse  is  on  the  bust; 

When  his  hoofs   are   flashin'   lightnin' 

From  a  golden  cloud  o'  dust; 

And  the  bawlin'  of  the  cattle 

Is  a-comin'  down  the  wind, — 

Oh,  a  finer  life  than  ridin' 

Would  be  mighty  hard  to  find, 

Just  a-ridin',  just  a-ridin\ 
Splittin'  long  cracks  in  the  air, 
Stirrin'  up  a  baby  cyclone, 
Rootin'  up  the  prickly  pear. 

I  don't  need  no  art  exhibits 
When  the  sunset  does  his  best, 
187 


Just  A-Ridin'! 

Paintin'  everlastin'  glories 
On  the  mountains  of  the  west. 
And  your  operas  look  foolish 
When  the  night  bird  starts  his  tune 
And  the  desert's  silver-mounted 
By  the  kisses  of  the  moon, 

Just  a-ridin',  just  a-ridin', 
I  don't  envy  kings  nor  czars 
When  the  coyotes  down  the  valley 
Are  a-singin'  to  the  stars. 

When  my  earthly  trail  is  ended 
And  my  final  bacon  curled, 
And  the  last  great  round  up's  finished 
At  the  Home  Ranch  of  the  world, 
I  don't  want  no  harps  or  haloes, 
Robes  or  other  dress-up  things, — 
Let  me  ride  the  starry  ranges 
On  a  pinto  horse  with  wings, 

Just  a-ridin',  just  a-ridin', 
Splittin'  chunks  o'  wintry  air, 
With  your  feet  froze  to  your  stirrups 
And  a  snowdrift  in  your  hair. 
(As  sent  by  Elwood  Adams,  a  Colorado 
cowpuncher.}      See    "Sun    and   Saddle 
Leather"  by  Charles  Badger  Clark,  Jr. 


1 88 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 

SOH,   Bossie,  soh! 
The  water's  handy  heah, 
The  grass  is  plenty  neah, 
An'  all  the  stars  a-sparkle 
Bekaze  we  drive  no  mo' — 
We  drive  no  mo'. 

The  long  trail  ends  today, — 
The  long  trail  ends  today, 
The  punchers  go  to  play 
And  all  you  weary  cattle 
May  sleep  in  peace  for  sure, — 
May  sleep  in  peace  for  sure, — 
Sleep,  sleep  for  sure. 

The  moon  can't  bite  you  heah, 
Nor  punchers  fright  you  heah. 
An'  you-all  will  be  beef  befo' 
We  need  you  any  mo', — 
We  need  you  any  mo' ! 

From  Pocock's  "  Curley." 

THE    END 

189 

PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


This  book  is 


'D  Li 

NOV    7 '63 -HAM 


JAN  1  2  1995 

CIRCULATION  DEF 
NOM  0* 


MAY  1 9  1969 


LD  21 


VD       j    ! 

D      I    J 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


